Swings and Roundabouts
by amyxaphania
Summary: Every year, to mark the anniversary of his wife’s death, Spike Giles makes the trip to L.A. to visit her grave—always alone, always lonely. This year he meets the girl who will change not only his evening but his life. Forever. All-human, Spike/Buffy.
1. Chapter One

**A/N: **I've been writing this one for a few months--I have ten chapters written, so if all goes well, I'll be updating every week. Many thanks to Sotia for beta reading and just generally being awesome. Oh--and in case you were wondering (as it seems to just be a British expression)--the title comes from the idiom: something you say to describe a situation in which there are as many advantages as there are problems. I hope you enjoy. :)

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Prologue

"Buffy? Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Buffy stared blankly at the wall. She didn't want to listen, didn't want to hear her mom say the words again. _Angel's dead._

"Buffy? Say something, sweetie," Joyce pleaded. "Let me know that you understand."

_I get it, Mom. He's dead. I heard you the first time. I just don't want to believe it._

"Hank, she's not answering. She's just staring…" Her mom's voice was worried, but Buffy didn't care. She had been enveloped by a crushing numbness and couldn't–didn't _want_ to–feel anything.

"She's in shock."

_Duh, Dad._

"Come on now, honey." Her mom tried to put her arm around her, as though that would make her feel better. "I know you're hurting, but you have to let us know how you feel. The shock could harm the…" Joyce broke off with a sob, and at this, Buffy turned to look at her, surprised that her mom would cry for Angel. She'd never liked him.

Her dad hugged her mom to his chest, and Buffy looked away. She didn't want to watch him comfort her. Not when…

Joyce sniffed. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I shouldn't break down like that. It's just… the thought of your poor baby, growing up without its daddy–"

Buffy shook her head, the numbness growing. "It's okay, mom. The baby will have a father."

"What?" Joyce frowned, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a tissue. "Buffy, you understand, don't you? Angel's dead. He's not coming back."

Buffy laughed, feeling slightly hysterical. "I know that, mom. I've just decided I'm not keeping it. The baby. So it will have a dad. And a mom." She shrugged. "That's all."

* * *

  
**Chapter One**

_Ten Years Later_

"Now, you be good for your grandad, all right?" William 'Spike' Giles hugged his daughter to him. "And Dad, you'll be okay?"

"Yes, William." Rupert Giles sighed, and smiled good-naturedly. "This isn't the first time you've left her with us, you know."

"I know," Spike said. "It's just–"

"You worry."

"Yeah." Spike nodded. "Even now."

"I understand, son." Rupert picked up one of the suitcases, and moved towards the front door. "Are you going to be all right? I know how hard these trips are for you."

Spike closed his eyes, not wanting to think about what he was doing, or what he would do when he arrived back in L.A. "I'm fine. It's–it's something I need to do. Need to have that moment, to remember, you know?"

"Oh yes," his father replied, and waved as he saw Jenny Calendar walking up the drive. "Even now, I visit your mother quite often." He inclined his head towards Jenny and smiled. "It's okay to move on, William."

"Dad…"

"All right, I won't meddle," Rupert said, as he greeted Jenny with a kiss. "But I worry about you. And Claire. Now, do you have everything?"

"Is Rupert nagging you again, Will?" Jenny pecked Spike on the cheek. "Honestly, he's like an old woman."

"Yes, thank you." The older man sighed. "Let's all make fun of mad old Rupert."

There was a giggle from the living room, and Claire poked her head around the doorway. "I don't think you're mad, Grandad."

"Thank you, dear." Rupert smiled, and beckoned Claire over. "Say goodbye to your father."

"Bye, Daddy."

Spike tried not to let his daughter see how much the goodbye affected him, so he hugged her close and swallowed back the tears that threatened to fall. Dropping a kiss to the top of her head, he stepped back and picked up his bag.

"All right then. See you next week."

* * *

  
Spike slipped his passport back into his pocket and smiled at the girl behind the desk. "Thanks."

"I'd love to go to L.A., I would," she said, fixing the baggage claim label around Spike's suitcase. "Bet you see all sorts of famous people. Are you going for anything nice?" She handed him his boarding pass, a flirtatious smile on her face.

Spike shrugged. "Going to visit my wife."

"Oh." Her smile fell. "Well, have a nice time."

"Thanks." Spike turned and walked towards the bookshop. He'd need something to keep himself occupied on the flight.

* * *

  
The flight had been as long and as boring as he'd expected, but Spike had managed to keep his mind off the upcoming weekend by immersing himself in the criminal exploits of Louisa and Leo, stars of the cheap paperback he'd bought at the airport.

Now, as he stepped into the lift at his hotel, he wanted nothing more than to get something to eat, call home, then crash until the following afternoon. And then he'd go and visit Dru.

Once in his room, he pulled off his clothes and stepped into the shower, relishing the warmth of the spray that soothed his aching muscles. He massaged shampoo into his hair, hating the generic hotel-soap smell, but not having the energy or the inclination to unpack his case and find his own.

Every year, this same ritual. The same hotel–hell, he had a feeling this was even the same room as the year before. He knew that his dad was right; he had to let go, move on, but that didn't mean he couldn't remember her, in his own way.

It wasn't healthy. Normal people visited the graves of their loved ones every so often. Laid flowers at the headstone, perhaps said a few words in memory, and then moved on. Spike had never heard of anyone else spending the whole night in the cemetery, standing vigil over their dead wife's grave, with only a bottle of Jack for company.

Spike shook his head and chuckled self-deprecatingly. At least he was able to admit that it was an insane thing to do.

Wrapping the hotel robe around himself, he moved back into the bedroom and picked up the handset of the cordless phone.

After calling room service, he checked his watch, deemed that six a.m. in England wasn't too early for a phone call, and dialled home.

"Hel–" His father's greeting was interrupted by a yawn. "Excuse me. Hello?"

"Dad, it's me."

"William. Ah, so you've arrived then?"

"Yeah," Spike replied. "Just about to get a bite to eat and then it's off to the land of nod for me. How's Claire?"

"She's fine. Still asleep," Rupert said. "As it is still exceedingly early."

"Sorry." There was a knock on the door, and he padded over to let room service in. He gestured to the desk in the corner, and the bell boy set a tray down before retreating from the room silently. "Anyway, I was just calling to let you know that I survived the flight. Tell Claire hello, and that I love her."

"Of course. Jenny's thinking of taking her to the cinema this afternoon." Rupert paused. "You'll look after yourself, won't you, William?"

"Yeah, Dad." Spike rolled his eyes. "You won't be getting a drunken phone call at three a.m. this year, don't worry."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Bye, Dad." Spike grinned, and shook his head as he pressed the end call button on the phone. His father would win the first place trophy in a nagging competition, but Spike knew he was right.

He had to break the unhealthy ritual of drinking himself blind at Dru's graveside at some point.

Tomorrow, then. Turn a new leaf, and all that rot.

That decided, he hurriedly ate the pasta he'd ordered, shrugged out of his robe, and fell into bed.

-TBC-


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N:** Big thank you to Sotia for beta reading. :) Hope you enjoy!

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Chapter Two

Spike woke up late the following afternoon and, as the early evening sun filtered in through the blinds, he made his plans for the rest of the weekend.

He would visit Drusilla's grave with only himself for company, no alcohol. He'd sit for a while on the stone bench next to Mr. Tomkins, directly opposite where Dru was buried. He would tell her about life, how Claire was and how well she was doing in school.

He imagined that he would cry; he always did. But this year, he would leave when it got dark. He wouldn't sit and wallow, drinking himself into stupefaction. This would be the year to finally make an attempt to let go, to make a new start.

His mind made up, he threw back the covers and rolled out of the bed, ready to face whatever ghosts the evening brought.

At four o' clock, there was a knock on the door of the hotel room, followed by a shouted, "Delivery!"

Spike stood and opened the door to be greeted by a man holding a basket of white roses.

"Mr. Giles?"

"Yeah, thanks." Spike accepted the flowers and signed the receipt. When the delivery man left, he took a deep breath and put on his coat. It was time.

* * *

The walk to the cemetery was remarkably pleasant. In previous years he remembered torrents of rain and a general air of gloominess. He didn't know if it was his new outlook on the visit that was making things that much more agreeable, or if the pall of Dru's loss had played tricks on his memory in the past, making him remember things with a dismal slant.

Either way, it felt good to be back in L.A. and relatively happy for the first time since he and Claire had picked up and left in the months following Dru's death.

Thinking about his daughter caused him to slow his steps and dampened his mood slightly. At nine years old, she was just coming to the age when she would really need her mother. Perhaps in a couple of years, he would bring Claire with him, let her see where her mum was buried.

Claire didn't ask too many questions about Drusilla. She had been only five when her mother had died, and Spike knew that most of her memories of Dru came from seeing old photographs and home videos. As far as he was concerned, her lack of curiosity was a good thing; he had no idea how he would ever tell her–

So lost in his thoughts, Spike didn't realise that he had arrived at the cemetery.

Taking a deep breath, he double-checked that the roses had survived the walk over and strode through the gates.

_Here we go._

* * *

He found Dru's grave with ease, the white marble headstone standing out starkly amongst the dark grey and black of all the other plots.

Laying the flowers at the graveside, he trailed his fingers across the top of the marble. It was cold to the touch.

The bench next to Mr. Tomkins beckoned, and he sat down, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forwards to concentrate on Dru.

"Hey, love. It's me. Back again. Can you believe this makes it four years? Still hurts like a bitch." He paused, then laughed wryly. "Trying a new thing this year, pet: no drink. That's progress. You'd be happy, I think."

A far off car alarm broke into the silence of the early evening, and Spike jumped, taking it as a sign.

"Okay, okay. Enough about me." He sat back, and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Claire's doing well. Top of her class in English. I'd say she takes after her mum, but…" He paused. "You know what I mean."

Spike talked for a good hour–about this, that, life back in England. Small, mundane topics that bore no real significance but that he knew Dru would like to hear. He cried, a little. The tears were cathartic, though.

By this time in previous years, he'd have been sloshed and half-way to unconsciousness. This was far better.

When his voice went hoarse, and he looked up to see that night had crept in without his notice, he knew that it was time to leave.

"Bye, Dru."

* * *

Spike walked away from Drusilla's grave, feeling as though a weight had been lifted. He felt lighter than he had in years, and planned to spend the rest of his time in L.A. relaxing. He had almost made it to the gates, when his gaze fell on an odd shape in the grass.

At first he thought that it was a rubbish bag, or perhaps a tarpaulin, but looking closer, he could see feet and hands and bright blond hair. A body. It didn't look like it was moving, and Spike's heart began to pound.

Hurrying towards it, he fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone, ready to dial 911 if he had to. He fell to his knees and saw that it was a woman, curled into a foetal position, her eyes closed. Spike reached out towards her neck, intending to check for a pulse, but when she suddenly opened her eyes and raised her head, he jumped backwards, scared half to death. "Jesus!"

"What are you doing?" She sat up, and Spike realised that she was older than he had first thought. Mid-twenties, maybe.

"What am _I_ doing? Christ, woman, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" Standing up, Spike brushed soil from his knees and glared at her.

"I'm visiting." She nodded towards the grave she was sat next to. "And it's Bu– Anne."

"What?"

"My name. It's Anne, not woman." She smiled, and Spike realised she was beautiful.

"D'you usually fall asleep when you visit?" He knew that he should leave, head back to the hotel and relax, like he had planned, but something about this girl entranced him.

"Sometimes." Anne shrugged. "I usually stay all night, and sometimes sleep gets the better of me."

"I used to do that," Spike said. "Sit and watch over her grave all night. 'Course, by the morning I'd be passed out unconscious from too much alcohol. Decided to make a change this year."

There was an awkward pause, and he wondered why he had revealed so much to her.

"I should probably stop," Anne said, then laughed wryly. "I've been doing this for ten years. Sometimes on his birthday, sometimes on the day he died. How insane is that?"

Spike glanced at the headstone. _Liam Angelus. Our Beloved Angel. 1981-1999._ "Only eighteen. Your boyfriend?"

Anne nodded. "Yeah. It was a car crash."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Anne shrugged. "You didn't know him."

Spike looked away. He hated it too when people offered false platitudes. "I didn't mean–"

"Oh, I know." Anne waved her hand, and then smiled again. "Hey, you know what? Let's go for a walk." She stood up, and brushed stray pieces of grass and dirt from her skirt.

"What?" Spike stared at her, confused.

"It's a nice night. We should go for a walk." She picked up a red bag from the ground, and slung it across her shoulder.

"But–" Spike didn't really know what to say. "You don't even know me."

"I know that you've lost someone you loved, like me," Anne said. "And I know that you're kind of crazy, like me." She winked. "The good kind of crazy. And most importantly, I know that you're strong enough to walk away from the past, and I need that, too. Come for a walk with me?"

Spike nodded wordlessly, and Anne grinned, her smile lighting up her whole face. "Great!" She linked her arm with his, and started to walk to the cemetery gates. "So, what's your name?"

-TBC-


	3. Chapter Three

**Swings and Roundabouts**

**Chapter Three**

Spike found Anne fascinating. After slipping her arm through his, she had pulled him from the cemetery and out into a park. It was dusk, and there were a few people here and there; mostly people walking dogs and keep-fit fanatics huffing and puffing their way through a jog.

He hadn't missed the slight stumble of words when she had given him her name–she had been about to say something else before settling on 'Anne'. And so, when she had asked what he was called, he'd simply replied, 'Spike'.

She had laughed, and made a joke about it being a dog's name, and he had smiled back, her laughter infectious.

And now they were sitting cross-legged underneath an oak tree, their backs to the gnarled trunk.

"What are we doing?" he asked, wondering for the hundredth time since he'd met her why he had left with her so willingly.

"We're surviving," she said, softly. "If I hadn't met you tonight, I'd still be there. Sitting by Angel's grave and wallowing."

"Hasn't it got easier?" Spike asked. "It's been ten years for you. Surely by now…"

Anne shrugged. "I've gotten on with my life, don't get me wrong. I don't want to give you the impression that I've spent the past ten years moping around."

"No." Spike was quick to interrupt. "That's not what I meant."

"I know," Anne touched the back of his hand, and Spike's skin tingled. "But losing Angel is tied up in a whole load of other stuff that I don't really want to get into. Let's just say that I–I lost two people in a very short amount of time. It was hard. And yeah, it was a long time ago, and yeah, for a while it sucked big time." She sighed. "I _am_ okay. You just caught me on a bad night. I kind of… save up all my grief for the yearly visit. Weird, huh?"

"I've been doing that for the last four years." Spike realised that Anne's hand still lay on his, and he fixed his gaze there. "Not so weird."

"It gets easier." She nudged his shoulder. "Don't give up."

He smiled. "Thanks."

* * *

Spike didn't spend much time just sitting in parks–he took Claire out, of course, but she spent most of her time playing on the swings and roundabouts in the playgrounds, or throwing a ball and Frisbee–but he found he was enjoying it.

Anne had spread her legs out in front of her, and Spike's eyes were continually drawn to the smooth bronzed skin, despite his attempts to keep his focus on her face. She seemed aware of where his attention lay, because she had a small, secret smile on her lips.

After a while of idle chit-chat, she jumped up and held out her hand to him. "Come on."

Spike grinned. "What now?"

Patting her stomach, Anne smiled back. "Food, of course."

"Oh, of course."

* * *

When they were still walking through the park twenty minutes later, Spike wondered if they were ever going to get something to eat.

"Where are we going, love?"

"You'll see."

He raised an eyebrow, but continued to walk beside her. It was fully dark now, and there was very little lighting on the way along the path. He wondered whether he ought to be more cautious, heading off into the unknown with a virtual stranger. For all he knew, she could be a crazy, axe-wielding murderess, looking to make him her next victim.

He glanced at her, nervously, then looked away. She had been looking at him, too.

"What?" She sounded amused, and Spike wondered what emotions were showing on his face. He'd always had an expressive face–too expressive, he was a piss-poor poker player–and his feelings were always easy to read. So he decided to be honest.

"Just wondering if you were gonna murder me with an axe."

Anne frowned, and stopped walking. Seconds later, Spike found himself in a headlock, and was struggling to breathe. Almost as soon as she'd captured him, Anne let him go, crossing her arms and arching her eyebrow.

Breathing heavily, Spike managed to choke out a few words. "What the hell?"

"I wouldn't need an axe."

"God! You're bloody weird, you know that?" But he couldn't keep the grin from his face. What she had just done? Kinda hot. "And strong, too. For–"

"A girl?"

"I was going to say for someone so small, but yeah."

"I teach martial arts," Anne said. "I got into it when… when Angel died. Something to help get rid of the pent-up anger, you know?"

All of a sudden, the atmosphere changed, going from light and playful–and slightly crazy¬–to sad and melancholic. Anne's face became drawn and tight, she was reminded of her loss, and in turn, Spike remembered Dru and felt his face fall too.

"Are you feeling guilty?" Anne asked. "I am."

"What for?"

"Forgetting. Just for a few moments there, you forgot about your wife, didn't you? And now you're feeling guilty for forgetting."

Spike shook his head, mouthing wordlessly. Until she had said it, he hadn't realised that the gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach was guilt, and she was right: it was guilt over forgetting about Dru for a short time. For laughing, and having fun on the anniversary of her death.

"Stop it. You don't need to feel guilty."

"How can I not?" Spike's voice was hoarse, and he could feel tears on their way. "I should be back there, by her side, remembering! Not here, with another woman!"

"You decided that wasn't the way to go anymore." Anne's voice was soft, and he felt her hesitant touch on his shoulder. "You decided to walk away from the pain and move forward, remember?"

Spike nodded.

"Okay. So we're going to go and get some food, and then we're going to go dancing."

Spike's head snapped up. "I don't dance."

"You do tonight."

* * *

"Have you had any boyfriends since, er–" Spike stopped speaking when he saw the expression on Anne's face. It was a cross between anger, and the very-teenager-esque '_duh!_' "Okay, I'll take that as a yes."

"No, I haven't been living like a nun for ten years."

"Sorry." Spike looked down at his hands and twisted his wedding ring around and around.

"I've had boyfriends, yeah," Anne said, dipping a fry into her ketchup. "None of them lasted very long. There's never been anyone who I've really felt a–a connection with, you know?"

Spike nodded, still absentmindedly turning his wedding ring.

"I take it there's been no one else for you, then?" She nodded her head towards his ring.

"Oh!" Spike stopped the movement of his hand, and picked up a buffalo wing. "No. I haven't even thought about it. My dad's been on at me lately. _'Move on, find yourself a nice young lady, blah blah.'_"

"Maybe you should."

Spike raised an eyebrow, and smirked. "That an offer, pet?"

Anne bit her lip, and lowered her eyes flirtatiously. "What if it is?"

Eyes widening, Spike hurriedly tried to backtrack. "Er... I didn't, I mean… I'm not ready, and–and, I have to think of Claire."

"Spike." Anne laughed. "It was a joke. You know: haha, funny?"

"Oh." Spike relaxed. Not that the thought of being with Anne was a bad one–in fact, a certain area of his body was telling him that it would be a very, very good idea–but it was like he'd said. He didn't feel ready. And he was scared, though he had trouble admitting that even to himself.

He hadn't been with anyone but Dru. Ever. She had been his first, his only, his everything, and he was terrified that if–when–he slept with someone else, it would be a disaster.

"So, who's Claire?"

Anne's voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he breathed a sigh of relief, glad that the conversation had moved to a safer topic. "She's my daughter." His face lit up like it always did when he spoke about her.

"You have a kid?" Anne sounded suddenly upset, and Spike wondered why.

"Yeah. She's nine." Like any proud parent, he had several pictures in his wallet, and he started to reach into his jacket pocket for it. "Do you want to see a picture?"

Looking down at the plastic tabletop, Anne shook her head. "Not really." She sighed. "No offence. It's a thing. Issues."

"No worries," Spike said. "Probably for the best, eh? We've only just met."

Anne seemed to find something funny in what he'd said, for she started to laugh. Unsure why, but finding her laughter infectious, Spike joined in.

"Shall we go?" Anne said, between giggles. "You were going to take me dancing."

-TBC-


	4. Chapter Four

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Chapter Four

"No bloody way."

"Oh, come on!" Anne pleaded, and tugged on his arm, pulling him towards the lit-up entrance to the bar. "It'll be fun!"

"No. I said I'd dance, and that's it." Spike glared. "I'm not doing bloody karaoke."

"Spoilsport." Anne pouted. "Let's go in here, anyway. They make a mean cocktail."

Spike looked at her, surprised. "I thought you knew that I wasn't drinking tonight, pet."

"There's a difference between drinking yourself stupid on your own in a graveyard, and having a few drinks in a bar." Grabbing his hand, Anne pulled him to the queue lining up outside the club.

Distracted by the feel of her hand in his, Spike didn't resist, and allowed himself to be dragged along. The karaoke bar in question was called _Caritas_, and had a brightly-lit sign illuminating the sidewalk outside. Judging by the queue, it was a pretty popular venue.

When the bouncer on the door waved them in, not asking to see an I.D., Spike wondered again how old Anne was. He would put her in her mid-twenties, but she had one of those faces that moved between seeming old and young, depending on her expression.

"How old are you, love?" Spike asked, holding the door open for her.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it was rude to ask a lady her age?" Anne said, her tone playful. "I'm twenty-seven. Three years away from the big three-oh. You?"

Chuckling, Spike answered, "Speeding away in the other direction. I'm thirty-four, pet."

"Wow." Anne looked shocked. "I'd never have guessed. You could pass for ten years younger, easily."

Spike sighed, dramatically. "We all have our crosses to bear."

Anne stuck out her tongue, and pulled him further into the bar, weaving their way through the tables and chairs until they found an empty booth.

* * *

"This is bloody painful," Spike said, gesturing with his beer bottle towards the brightly lit stage. A middle-aged mutton-dressed-as-lamb was currently belting her heart out to Whitney Houston's _Greatest Love of All_, assaulting the ears of everyone else in the club.

"Yeah." Anne wrinkled her nose. "You go up and show them how it's done."

"No."

"Go on."

"Nope. Not doing it." Spike shook his head for emphasis.

"I bet you have a great voice," Anne said, sipping at her rum and coke. "All sexy and growly."

"I can hold a tune, yeah," Spike said, purposefully ignoring her second comment. "But there's no way in hell you're getting me up on that stage."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Anne pouted. "You're no fun."

Spike swallowed, his eyes flicking between her full lips and where her arms had pushed her breasts together. He looked away, and nervously swigged his beer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her slump in her seat and frown.

An uncomfortable silence descended between them and Spike didn't know how to break it. He opened his mouth several times, but he couldn't think of what to say. He got the impression that he had offended her somehow.

Moments later, Anne stood. "I'm going to the bathroom." Hurrying out of the booth and towards the ladies, she didn't spare him a second glance.

* * *

Metaphorically banging his head on the table, Spike groaned. "You're an idiot. Fuck."

"So, what did you do to piss off the little lady you were with, Sweet-cheeks?"

Spike looked up, surprised to see that yes, the man in the shockingly green suit was talking to him. "Uh…"

"I'm Lorne, owner of this _fabulous_ establishment." The man slid into the seat across from Spike and winked. "And I absolutely won't have any of my clientele looking as sad as you do right now. So, what can I do to cheer you up?"

Spike stared, not sure what to make of the man but deciding to just go with the flow. He'd been lucky in that regard already that night.

"How about a drink on the house?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of having you come and sing us a song," Lorne replied. "Karaoke, always good for the soul."

"No offence, mate," Spike said. "But if–as you put it–my _little lady_ couldn't get me up there to sing, you're not going to have much luck."

"Well, well." Lorne tutted. "So that's what got her in such a tizzy? How about this, then? You come on stage and show us what you've got, and the rest of your drinks tonight are on the house. What do you say?"

"Why are you so insistent that I sing?" Spike asked, unable to help feeling sceptic at Lorne's more-than-generous offer.

Lorne shrugged. "I told you, I don't like to see my patrons unhappy. The little blonde's a regular, and this is the first time I've seen her looking even remotely cheery. And we want to keep that smile on her face, don't we? So, what's it gonna be?"

"Fine." Spike swallowed down the rest of his drink, and stood up. He took a moment to peer in the direction of the ladies loos, but saw no sign of Anne. He hated the thought that he had upset her, but perhaps when he started singing, she would re-emerge. "I'm holding you to the free drinks, mate."

"You've got it." Lorne winked again, and whirled away. "I'll let Pablo know that any money from the blond with the gorgeous cheekbones is no good in my bar tonight!"

Spike laughed, and shook his head as he strode towards the stage. The night was just getting more peculiar by the minute.

* * *

Spike closed his eyes at the opening strains of _Behind Blue Eyes_, gripping the microphone tight, and trying not to think of the watching crowd.

This was the most exposed he had let himself get in years; after Dru's death, he had been withdrawn and lonely, only coming out of his shell when Claire needed him. While he sang, it felt like a weight was being lifted from his shoulders. He felt freer than he had in a long time, and it was a good feeling. Like he was standing on a precipice, and just one step forwards would send him flying over the edge.

When the song drew to a close, he opened his eyes and scanned the audience. There she was. Near the back, swaying slightly to the music, that same secret smile on her face.

Winking at her and feeling emboldened by the way she bit her lip and ducked her head, he finished the song with a bow and jumped down off the stage, making a beeline for Anne.

He had almost made it to her, intent on doing something–kiss her, hug her, just _something_–when Lorne intercepted him, patting him on the back and offering him a new bottle of beer.

Momentum lost, he frowned and walked the remaining few feet to where Anne stood.

"Well, you sang," she said, when he stopped in front of her.

"I did."

"You were great." She took his hand in hers. "I'm impressed."

"Yeah?" Spike didn't protest when she took the beer from him, and set it down on an empty table.

"Yeah. All sexy and growly, like I thought." She grabbed his other hand and laced her fingers through his. "Very sexy."

It was at that point that Spike knew resistance was futile. Something about that girl had captured his heart, making it beat for the first time in years. She was an enigma, a mystery, a soul just as lost as he was, and he wanted her. Wanted to jump off that cliff. Desperately.

So, when she pulled him onto the dance floor, her arms around his neck and her body pressed tightly to his, he let her.

-TBC-


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N:** It's only now that I'm posting this story, that I realise how short the chapters are. Sorry about that. Anyway, thank you to the awesome Sotia for beta reading and to everyone who commented last chapter.

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Chapter Five

The beat of the song wound through his body, pulsing from the tips of his fingers down through to his toes. Anne had her back to him, moving sinuously against him in time to the music. His hands were on her hips, lips hovering over the crook of her neck.

They were barely moving, just rocking slightly back and forth, side to side, in mimicry of a mating dance as old as the ages.

Anne twisted to face him, looping her arms around his body. Her hands rested on the small of his back, and–when she lifted his t-shirt slightly, hot fingers stroking the skin there–he jumped and pulled her even closer.

He groaned. "What are you doing to me?" When there was no reply, Spike didn't know if she had heard him over the pulsing beat of the music.

The song changed, the sultry sounds of the dance number morphing into a softer ballad, the singer's voice as rich as chocolate. Anne laid her head against his shoulder, and he held her tight, relishing her touch, the feel of someone in his arms, something he had denied himself for so long.

Guilty thoughts tried their hardest to creep into his mind, thoughts of how he had met Anne in the first place, and why he was in L.A. Spike ignored them, concentrating only on the girl in his arms. She was right. Dwelling on the guilt wasn't the right thing to do.

Right then, that very moment, he was dancing with Anne, and that was the only thing he wanted to think about: the way she fit against him so sweetly, the way her hands felt in his, the scent of the skin at the crook of her neck, and the softness of it when he rested his chin there.

He couldn't say who made the first move when, moments later, their lips met in a tentative kiss. It was soft and hesitant, but it still sent tingles through Spike, and he moaned when she pulled away. Their eyes met, and he saw that Anne was looking at him just as intently as he was looking at her.

In the background, the song was reaching its peak, but Spike heard nothing but the pounding of his heart and then, suddenly, he was kissing her again.

It was nothing like before; this kiss was neither tentative nor hesitant, but full of passion and longing. He moaned and pulled her closer, his tongue running along the seam of her lips, coaxing her mouth open.

Somehow they manoeuvred themselves off the dance floor until they came to a stop underneath a metal stairwell. Spike pressed Anne against the wall, and kissed her like his life depended on it. She tasted sweet, of the rum and coke she'd had earlier. He couldn't get enough.

He felt like he was on fire, his hands running up and down her back, her sides, every part of her he could touch. When she pulled away, panting harshly and eyes wide, her head tilted back against the wall, he showered the sides of her face and neck with little nips and kisses.

"Spike…"

He heard her voice, but it didn't really register.

"Spike, wait…"

She pushed at his chest, and he took a step back, staring at her in confusion. He swallowed, and tried to get his breathing under control. "Is everything okay?" Running a hand through his hair, he continued. "What… why…?"

Smiling, she leaned into him again and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "Everything's good. I just thought…" She shrugged, a shy smile on her face. "Maybe we could go somewhere more private?" She sent a daring glance down towards the front of his jeans, where the evidence of his arousal was apparent.

"Oh." It took a few seconds for Spike to realise what she meant. "Oh!"

Taking her hand, he wrapped his long leather coat around himself to conceal his erection and let her pull him towards the exit.

As they were leaving the club he saw Lorne tip his head towards them with a nod and a wink.

* * *

Stepping out into the chill night air calmed the heat between them a little. Spike grabbed Anne's hand and started to pull her towards the taxi rank.

"Wait, wait." She laughed. "What hotel are you at?"

"The Century."

"No need for a taxi, then," Anne said. "I know a shortcut."

"Look at you." Spike smirked. "All know-it-all."

"What can I say?" Anne replied. "I'm knowledge-girl."

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close for a kiss. "You're amazing."

Pulling away, the slightest hint of a blush on her cheeks, Anne spoke as she took off at a slight run. "Come on, this way."

* * *

"If I remember rightly," Spike said, "the last time you and I took a walk in a park, it wasn't so much a short-cut as a _long_ one." He peered ahead, unable to see very far. It was fully dark now, and when he glanced at his watch he was surprised to see that it was almost two in the morning. It didn't seem five minutes had passed since he had met Anne, let alone over five hours.

"I swear we're going the right way." She swung their joined hands backwards and forwards, and then twirled herself closer to him, stealing a kiss with a laugh.

Spike looked at her, bemused. "You're an odd one."

"And you're not?" She smiled enigmatically and then nodded her head towards the children's playground they were passing. "I bet you wouldn't bat an eyelash if I told you I wanted to go in there."

Spike frowned before he realised that she was right. In the short time that he'd known her, she'd continually surprised him with her quirky ways. "Do you?"

"What?"

"Want to go play on the roundabout?" Spike clarified.

"The what?" Seeing Spike make a circular motion with his hand, she understood. "Oh. No, I was thinking more of making out on the swings."

He sent her a heated look, the idea of simply kissing on the swings like teenagers exciting him more than he'd imagined it would. His adolescent years hadn't exactly been full of such delights; that would be a first for him.

Seated on the swing, Anne straddling his lap, Spike found that he did feel slightly ridiculous, and began glancing around nervously, checking for onlookers.

Anne threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed him lightly. "There's no one around. Stop worrying."

"Can't help but feel a little silly, pet," Spike said. "I'm a mite too old for this."

Anne smiled. "Honestly? I feel kind of stupid, too. You see people doing this… in the movies, you know? I always thought it looked fun. I never really got to have fun with–"

Spike silenced her with a kiss, knowing what she was going to say and not wanting the ghosts of their past to come between them. She leaned into the embrace, making a small noise of satisfaction as she kissed him back.

It wasn't long before their mouths were moving together furiously, Spike feeling as though he would burn up at any given moment. They were pressed intimately together, and, every time Anne rocked against him, he groaned, the movement sending bolts and shivers of pleasure through him.

When he felt like he would pass out from the dizzying heights she was sending him to, he broke away from her mouth with a ragged gasp. Between breaths, he managed to say, "Think we should move this somewhere else before I embarrass myself, love."

Anne nodded, and slipped from his hold, staggering slightly as she stood up. "Come on."

-TBC-


	6. Chapter Six

**Swings and Roundabouts**

**Chapter Six**

She had been right. After the little detour to the playground, it had only been a short five-minute walk to his hotel. And now, as they stood in the elevator–hands to themselves, because an elderly lady was riding it with them–Spike allowed himself to feel a little of the fear that he had been keeping at bay since the first kiss.

So far, he had been running purely on lust and adrenaline. The kisses had been full of heat, and oh-so-wonderful, but they had been nothing more than kisses. This, heading to his hotel room, had a purpose, an inevitable conclusion, and whilst he wanted it–oh, God, how he wanted it–he couldn't help but feel a little nervous.

As though she could sense his apprehension, Anne slipped her hand into his and squeezed. He shot her a grateful smile. Smiling back, he thought he could sense a little nervousness in her expression, too, and that calmed him.

At floor fifteen, the old lady left the elevator, and Anne stepped a little closer to him. He slid his arm around her waist and pressed a kiss to a spot just underneath her ear, inhaling her perfume and the scent of her skin.

The ding of the lift arriving at his floor startled him. Taking a deep breath, he walked down the corridor, arm still around Anne's waist. Hands shaking as he took the key-card from his pocket, he attempted to swipe it through the lock, but dropped it to the floor. "Fuck."

Anne put her hand on his when he bent to pick up the card, making him meet her eyes. "Hey. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He turned away, successfully opening the door, and was about to step through when she spoke again.

"Spike, come on."

Something in the tone of her voice undid him, and, when he met her eyes, his resolve to keep his worries to himself crumbled. He sighed. "I just–this is difficult for me. First time since... you know." He fiddled with the gold band around his ring finger.

"I get that. I've been there too, remember?" Anne's hand was gentle on his, her skin dry and smooth, soothing. "We don't have to do this. You can go in that room, and I can walk away, and we can forget all about tonight, forget everything that's happened between us. If that's what you want."

Shaking his head, he spoke, words mumbled. "Don't want that."

"Are you sure? Cos, when we walk through that door, I want it to be just us. No ghosts. Just me and you, together because we–we have this–this… thing. A–"

Spike met her eyes. "Connection."

"Right." Anne nodded. "You feel it too?"

"Yeah." He brushed his hand over her forehead and down her cheek until his thumb found her lips. "Feel like I've known you a thousand years." At her blush, he shook his head, biting his lip in embarrassment. "Oh, sod it. Gone sappy. See what you've done to me? Turned me into a bleedin' softie."

A wicked grin on her face, Anne let her hand trail its way down the front of his shirt to his crotch, coming to rest on his rapidly hardening length. "That's a shame," she said, her voice light and teasing. "I was hoping I'd turned you into the exact opposite."

He met her smirk with one of his own. "Minx." The mood now shifted from its earlier melancholy, he pulled her into his arms and through into his hotel room, slamming the door shut behind them.

Pressing her up against the wall, he covered her body with his, and kissed her. Anne ran her hands down the backs of his arms, linking their fingers together when she reached his. The room was silent; the only sound their breathing and the whispers of skin on skin.

Spike stepped away slightly and led her towards the bed, pushing all other thoughts out of his mind, choosing to concentrate on the here and now. They stood at the foot of the bed, a hairsbreadth away from each other, though they were no longer touching.

Spike reached out a shaking hand, stroking long fingers down Anne's arm and onto the soft material of her t-shirt. He slid his fingers under the cloth, following the curve of her waist with his fingertips. In a rush of sudden movement, he pushed her shirt up and off, dropping it to the floor. Eyes darting, trying to take in every inch of her, he was startled when she did the same to him, and his shirt ended up next to hers on the carpet.

The evening had been one surreal moment after the next; meeting Anne in the cemetery: taking a walk with her, eating fries and buffalo wings, the singing, the dancing–bizarre, all of it–_but this_, Spike thought, as he drew her onto the bed, _this is real_.

* * *

Spike woke slowly, the sudden, terrible thought entering his mind that Anne would have left sometime in the night. Blinking himself awake, he let out a breath of relief when he saw her nestled into his side, golden skin seeming to almost glow in the late morning sunlight.

In sleep, she looked so sweet. Innocent, almost. Memories of the night before told him that this wasn't the case–far from it–but now, with her long blonde hair gathered in a silken pool, dark lashes lying against her cheek, her soft mouth forming a slight pout, Spike thought she looked like an angel.

The thought made him scoff at himself. She really had turned him into a right poofter. He wondered what would happen if he were able to stay with her, if he didn't have responsibilities back in England. Would she want that? Or had she just been after a little cold comfort? A night in the arms of a stranger to forget all her worries.

He was roused from his thoughts when he felt the light press of lips on his shoulder. He looked to Anne to see her awake, eyelids heavy with sleep.

"Morning." His voice was gruff, and cracked on the word. Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth to speak again, but was silenced with a kiss. Anne slipped one leg across his waist, and moved until she was straddling him.

"Hi." There was a smile in her voice as she rocked her hips forwards, sending sparks of heat through Spike's body.

It felt like every part of him was touching every part of her, their bodies pressed so intimately together that it was difficult to tell where he ended and she began. She kissed him again, rubbing her nose against his, her eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks.

Lifting her hips, she reached between them and guided his cock to her entrance. She slid down slowly, inch by wonderful inch, until he was fully sheathed within her. They let out simultaneous sighs of relief, and Spike couldn't help smiling at the synchronicity.

Staring at his shoulders, she slid her palms down his arms, finally lacing her fingers through his. She rocked her hips in a languorous rhythm, barely moving at all. For Spike, it was an exquisite form of torture; he wanted to move faster, to flip her over and pound into her over and over until they found sweet release. But she was in control now, and he liked the power she held over him.

Sitting up, she began to move faster, and Spike was entranced by picture she made: eyes closed in pleasure, long hair trailing down her back and tickling his legs. He reached up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. She bit her lip, and let out a little moan of pleasure as she bore down on him harder, grinding against him with every thrust.

When he sensed she was close, he reached between their bodies to find her clit, and then she was gasping and crying out, her inner walls fluttering around him in release. Before she could come down from the high, Spike gave in to his urges and rolled her over so she lay beneath him, her eyes widening at the sudden movement.

He set a fast pace, thrusting into her hard and fast. He joined his hands with hers once more, and she squeezed them, her nails biting into his skin. His movements became frantic, unskilled, and their mouths met for kiss after clumsy kiss. When he came, it was with a shouted cry, his hips jerking forwards. Anne wrapped her legs around his waist, and pressed against him once, twice more, until she followed him over the edge into her second orgasm.

Spike buried his face in the crook of her neck, panting. He kissed the spot underneath her ear, tasting the saltiness of her skin. Her hands were moving against his back, leaving goose-bumps in their wake.

"Don't move," she said, when he started to roll off her.

"I'm not crushing you?"

"Nope." She ceased the movements of her hands, and hugged him tightly.

He pulled out of her and rolled over anyway, bringing her with him until she was snuggled into his side once more.

They lay in silence for several minutes, each locked in their own thoughts. Spike glanced quickly at the bedside clock, hoping that time had somehow slowed down to a stop. His flight back to England was at five that evening, and it was already noon.

"You have to leave soon." It wasn't a question. Her words were matter-of-fact, resigned.

"I–"

"It's okay." She moved away from him, slipping from the bed and across the room to where a robe was hanging before he could blink. "We both knew what we were getting into."

Spike frowned, wanting to jump up, tell her that it _wasn't okay_; that what had happened between them had changed things. He knew she felt it–the connection, the heat and passion–she herself had mentioned it the night before.

He didn't say anything. What good would it do? He lived halfway on the other side of the world. Trying to rationalise the situation made him even more frustrated, and he wondered if it might have been better had he not met her at all.

But when she paused before going into the bathroom to give him a small smile, he knew that it was stupid to even think such a thing.

He lay back in the bed, telling himself that he wouldn't think of the fact that he had to leave in a few short hours.

For now, he would just enjoy the rest of his time with her.

Everything else could wait.

-TBC-


	7. Chapter Seven

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Chapter Seven

_Three and a half years later_

"…are you even listening to me? Can I go, or not?"

"What was that?" Spike looked up from his computer screen and, after seeing the pout on his daughter's lips, shut the lid of the laptop. "Sorry. You have my full attention."

"My friend's having a sleepover this Friday. Can I go?"

"Erm." Spike blinked and sat back in his chair. "Who's the friend? Will her parents be there?"

"A new girl at school," Claire replied, fiddling with the edge of her t-shirt. "Anne Kingsley. And yeah, her mum and dad will both be there." She rolled her eyes.

Ignoring the display of near-teenage petulance, Spike felt the familiar jolt at hearing the name Anne. It still happened. Too often.

"Dad? What's wrong with you today?"

Spike shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts and only partially succeeding. He looked at Claire, her eyes wide and pleading, and sighed. "Nothing for you to worry about. Work stuff. Yeah, of course you can go to your friend's house. I'll need her parents' number and address, mind."

"Yay! Thanks, Dad." She hugged him quickly and lightly, before heading to the door of his office. "I'm gonna go watch a film, okay?"

Spike nodded, and she left the room, shutting the door softly behind her. He stared after her, his mind still drifting in the sea of memories that hearing the name Anne had brought forward.

It had been three and a half years since that bizarre night and blissful morning in L.A. Three and a half years of hearing a laugh that sounded just like hers, or catching a glimpse of someone with that _exact_ shade of blond hair.

He'd been a wreck when he first got back from the trip. His father and Jenny had attributed his dour mood to the fact that visiting Drusilla's grave had brought back the memories of losing her, and that was partly true, but it was missing Anne that had made up the largest part of his melancholy.

Anne. It wasn't even her real name. And God, how he regretted not asking her what she was really called before she'd left that afternoon.

He sat forwards suddenly, his hands forming a cradle for his suddenly aching head. He knew he had to get over it. Forget all about her.

He'd even had a semi-serious girlfriend for a few months, but he still hadn't been able to let himself forget the girl he'd met in L.A. years ago. He knew it was ridiculous, pining over a woman he'd known for less than twenty-four hours. Bordering on crazy, even. He had to let it go.

Opening up his computer once more, he glanced at the e-mail that had set his thoughts on that traitorous path in the first place. His company's header stood out starkly from the white of the computer screen, the words of the email blurring as he stared at them.

He had applied for the job on a whim, not expecting the promotion, but there was the confirmation in plain black and white: _Congratulations, Mr. Giles. We're pleased to be able to offer you a position in our Los Angeles office_–and he didn't know what to do.

He had missed Los Angeles, though it had been almost eight years since he'd last lived there, and he couldn't help but feel that there was another incentive for going back…

Letting out his breath in a rush of air, he shut the computer down and stood up suddenly.

He would have to make the decision on whether to take the job based on how good it would be for his family, not because there was the ghost of a chance he could run into Anne again.

Picking up the phone, he called the local Chinese take-away and ordered dinner for himself and Claire.

* * *

_He stared at her, not knowing what to say. What could he say? Beams of sunlight through the window shone on her hair, making it look like a wave of golden silk._

The silence had turned awkward, and Spike hated it. Everything that had happened between them so far had been so fluid, so natural, that this present awkwardness felt wrong.

"So…" She broke the silence, shrugging, and then looked to the floor.

"Yeah." Spike took a step towards her, his gaze focused on her face, willing her to look up at him. If he could just see her eyes, see her expression, he'd know what to say.

She let out a huff of air in a stilted chuckle. "Well, this is uncomfortable." She still didn't look up.

"Wish it wasn't," Spike said. "Wish I could stay a bit longer. Wish we didn't live so far apart. Wish–"

"Spike, stop." This time, she raised her head and met his stare. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth fixed in a straight line, jaw clenched. "We both knew what we were getting into. There's no point in wishing otherwise." She looked away, out of the window, not even squinting when the sunlight hit her face.

Spike frowned. The silence resumed. He glanced at his watch, and nearly growled when he saw the time.

"Time to leave?" Her voice was light. She was still looking out the window.

"Almost." The word barely made it past his clenched teeth. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

"I should go, then. Let you get your stuff together." She moved towards the desk, where her red bag lay, before going to the foot of the bed and slipping her feet into her shoes.

Spike watched her every movement, fists clenched by his sides. If his life were a movie, this would be the moment when he'd throw reality to the floor and smash it beneath his boots. He'd push her back down onto the bed, kiss her, hold her, make love to her one more time.

The music would swell and the camera would focus on the bedside clock, ticking past the hour of his flight. Perhaps there would be a symbolic shot of the aeroplane taking off in the background.

But no. He might be in L.A., but life wasn't a Hollywood film, and he sure as hell wasn't any kind of actor. If he was, he would be able to hide the tears gathering in his eyes as she crossed the room to stand in front of him.

No such luck.

Her hand trailed down the side of his face, and he leaned into it, smelling the perfume she'd spritzed onto the pulse point in her wrist. She leaned forward, and Spike swallowed. Hard. Her kiss was the lightest brush on his lips, and then she was pulling away, her words a whisper on the air. "Goodbye, Spike."

And then she was gone.

* * *

Spike shot awake, the dream at the forefront of his mind. He touched his face to find that his cheeks were wet with tears. Shaking his head, he climbed out of bed, not bothering to switch the light on.

_This has to end._

He made his way down the hallway towards his study, trying to stay quiet so he didn't disturb Claire. Once there, he powered up his laptop, tapping the tabletop impatiently while he waited for it to finish loading.

The sound of his typing was the only thing that could be heard for the next few moments, and when he was done, he sat back in his chair, frowning.

_I would be delighted to accept the position in the L.A. office. Once again, thank you for this opportunity. Yours sincerely, William Giles._

Finger hovering over the mouse button, he knew that what he was about to do had the potential to change everything.

He clicked Send.

-TBC-


	8. Chapter Eight

**Swings and Roundabouts**

**Chapter Eight**

_Three months later_

"I don't know…"

"Come on, Buffy. You'll like him; I promise."

"Willow…" Buffy sighed.

"Come on. One date, or he'll be really disappointed."

"Disappointed? Did you already tell him I'd go out with him?"

"Um…"

"Willow!" Buffy switched the receiver to her other ear, wishing that her friend was there in person so she could withstand the full power of her glare.

"I'm sorry!" Willow's voice had taken on a high-pitched edge, and Buffy knew it would only be mere minutes before she started baking the apology cookies. "But you've not been out with anyone in a really long time. It'll be good for you. Not to mention–you need a break, Buffy. And he's a nice guy, honest."

Buffy shook her head, mouthing wordlessly. She knew that her friend meant well, she always did, but Buffy wished that, for once, Willow would just butt out and leave her alone. Dating was the last thing on her mind, and she'd thought that Willow knew that. On the other hand, she really could do with some time out.

"Fine. Whatever. I'll go out with him. Once. But you and Oz are coming, too. Double date, okay?" Despite the question, her voice left no room for argument.

"But then who'll–"

"Dawn, she's home from school for Christmas."

"Oh, okay."

"And nowhere fancy. Somewhere casual. I don't want to get this guy's hopes up." Buffy frowned. "You didn't get his hopes up already, did you?"

"If by not getting them up you mean not telling him that I have a totally hot friend that would just love to go out with him, then nope." Buffy could hear the smile in Willow's voice.

"Willow..." She sighed, but didn't want to argue anymore. She'd go on the date with the guy, pretend to have a good time, and then she'd never have to see him again. "All right. Let me know where and when, and I'll turn up."

"If you really don't want to–"

"I said I will."

"Now you're mad at me," Willow said. "Look, I'll call him and tell him no, okay?"

"No, it's fine. I swear." She looked at the clock, and cursed under her breath. "Shoot. I have to go. Text me, okay?"

"Got it. Bye, Buffy."

"See ya."

* * *

"Earrings… earrings…" Buffy glared at her dressing table. "Where the hell did I put my earrings?"

"Talking to yourself again?"

She jumped, and turned towards the door with her hand pressed to her suddenly pounding heart. "Dawn! You scared me."

Dawn smirked, sauntered into the room, perched herself at the end of Buffy's bed and looked her big sister up and down. "So, for a date that you don't want to go on, you sure are dressed up."

"What? This old thing?" Buffy turned towards the mirror and frowned at her reflection. The calf-length black skirt and pale shimmery blouse didn't look particularly dressy, in her opinion. She shrugged. "I dunno, Dawnie. If I'm going out with the guy, I feel like I should at least make an effort."

"You look nice," Dawn said. "Just… I thought you told Willow somewhere casual?"

"I did. Aha!" Buffy grinned when she found her earrings at the bottom of her jewellery box. "But she went ahead and booked a classy restaurant anyway."

"She interferes too much."

"Dawn–"

"What? She does." Dawn uncrossed her legs and lay back on the bed. "She's supposed to be your friend, not your life-guru. If you say you're not ready, she should respect that."

Buffy closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She knew what Dawn said was mostly right, but another part of her felt that she shouldn't let herself stop living. "I don't really want to talk about it now."

"Fine." Dawn huffed and sat up. "I was just saying."

"I know." Buffy turned soft eyes on her sister. "Maybe she's right, you know? I've been so down lately–"

"With good reason!" Dawn interrupted.

"I _know_." Buffy took a deep breath, and ran her fingers through her hair. "The last few months have been hell for us all. I need a break, okay?" She shrugged. "It's selfish, but–"

"It's not selfish," Dawn said, softly. "I get it. I'm away at college so I don't realise–I just want to help you, Buffy."

"And you do. But right now, there are other things you can do to help, all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I'll go find mom."

"Thanks." Buffy turned back to the mirror and took a deep breath. She smiled at her reflection, then bit her lip. "Time to go."

* * *

The taxi pulled up outside the restaurant, and Buffy peered out the window in trepidation.

"Damn it, Will." A large Christmas tree with twinkling lights gave way to a very upscale-looking frontage. _La Piazza_ was definitely not the casual date she had asked for.

She passed a couple of bills to the driver and climbed out of the car. A quick glance around revealed no sign of Willow or Oz, or anyone who could be her mysterious date. A lull in the sound of traffic pulled her from her thoughts, and Buffy took that as a sign to go inside.

The restaurant was as fancy on the inside as it had looked from the outside, and she sighed. She was going to _kill_ Willow.

The hostess greeted her with a smile, and Buffy froze. It had been so long since she'd been to a place like this, that she'd almost forgotten how things worked.

"Um… Rosenberg? Or Osbourne, I guess. Or even Mr. Mystery Man, but I kinda don't know his name yet…" She trailed off at the hostess's raised eyebrow, and blushed.

"I have a table for four under _Rosenberg_," the woman said. "You're the first of your party to arrive. If you'd like to take a seat over there…"

Buffy nodded and hurried off to the plush seating area. She hated that, what the last few years–and especially the past few months–had reduced her to. Before, after Angel had died, she'd been depressed, but the years had afforded her closure and time to think. And it had been _nothing_ like this.

Now, things were different. She had responsibilities, things that no one should ever have to deal with. She missed the happy-go-lucky girl she'd been all that time ago, and wanted her back.

A flash of red caught her eye, and she looked up to see Willow and Oz talking to the hostess, who pointed in her direction.

"Hey, Buffy!"

Buffy stood up and grabbed Willow by the arm, pulling her away from Oz.

"Willow," she hissed. "I said somewhere casual!" Gesturing around the foyer she continued, "_This_ is not casual!"

"I know," Willow said, grimacing. "But your date insisted. And you know I have a problem with saying no. I really ought to work on that. No. _No_. Nuh-uh, no way."

Buffy couldn't help but smile. "You know what? I have a feeling I'm gonna hate this guy."

"Sorry. Again." Willow paused. "Did I mention I was sorry?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "I'll survive."

They moved back towards Oz, who–as was typical–nodded and smiled but remained silent.

Buffy listened to the bustle of the restaurant, not really paying attention to what was going on around her. So, when Willow grabbed her arm, fingers almost bruising in their intensity, she jumped in surprise.

"There he is."

She fixed her gaze on the doorway, and her mouth fell open when she saw her date enter the restaurant.

"Oh, God."

-TBC-


	9. Chapter Nine

**A/N**:I'm posting a day early for two reasons: I have a test tomorrow morning and if it goes badly, I'll be too depressed to post. :P And secondly, I got an email letting me know that this fic has been nominated at the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for Best AU and Best Romance, that _Out of the Grey_ has been nominated for Best Series Finale Fic, and that I was nominated for Best Author. Thank you to whoever sent those nominations! Now, on with the chapter. I had fun seeing what people thought of the end of chapter eight.

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Chapter Nine

Buffy mouthed wordlessly as she found herself staring up into the eyes of Riley Finn, the only serious long-term boyfriend she'd had since Angel.

There had been flings, quick dalliances with other men, but Riley was the only one who had stuck around long enough for the morning after the morning after.

That is, until he'd decided that his military career was more important than she was. Towards the end, things had gotten really bad, and Buffy was not happy to see him. _An evening with Riley Finn on top of everything else? Great._

"Buffy! Gosh, what a surprise!"

She'd have bet her last dollar that, for him at least, it was far from a surprise. Buffy Summers wasn't exactly a common name.

"Tall… were you always this tall?"

"Buffy, Riley, you guys know each other?" Willow said, breaking the awkward silence.

"We dated a few years ago," Riley said. "Wow. Sure is good to see you again, Buffy." His eyes roamed over her figure–no doubt fuller than he remembered–and a slow smile spread across his face. "Looking good."

"Er… you too. New scar?" Buffy felt like kicking herself. Could she sound any stupider? _Note to self: when your ex-boyfriend turns up as your blind date, say_ nothing. "Willow, I need to talk to you."

Willow looked stricken, her eyes wide since she'd realised her inadvertent blunder. "Restroom?"

"Restroom." Buffy grabbed her friend's arm and pulled her away from Oz and Riley. "We'll be right back."

"So, uh… big oopsie?" Willow asked, as soon as the door to the ladies was closed.

"Big, _big_ oopsie." Buffy sighed. "Ex-boyfriend sized oopsie. I can't believe this."

"I am so, so sorry," Willow said. "I'll start on the cookies tomorrow."

"It's not your fault," Buffy replied, taking the opportunity to check her cell-phone. "You couldn't have known. Bet he did, though. How do you know him, anyway?"

"New bodyguard for the Dingoes," Willow said.

"Huh." Pressing send on the text message she'd quickly typed out, she turned to face her friend. "Guess we'd better get back out there."

"You're gonna stay?"

"I can't just take off." Buffy frowned. "As much as I want to. Besides, I kind of want to hear how he went from hotshot military man to Dingoes bodyguard."

Willow shrugged. "Okay, then."

* * *

The date was an unmitigated disaster. Everything bad that she remembered about Riley seemed amplified, and not even the presence of Willow and Oz was enough to make things better. Buffy couldn't even let herself drink too much, because of what awaited her at home.

Willow kept sending apologetic glances, which Buffy ignored. Her friend had meant well, but she couldn't have got things more wrong. And as the night wore on, Buffy began to wish that she _had_ escaped after having talked with Willow in the restroom.

After an hour of stilted conversation–and admittedly good food–Buffy was ready for the night to be over, but it seemed that Riley was in the mood for dancing.

"It'll be fun!" Riley said, grabbing her arm and trying to tug her in the direction of the taxi rank.

She shot Willow a _help me_ look, but her friend just shrugged apologetically, and bit her lip.

"I know a great place," Riley continued. "Awesome cocktails."

"I don't know, Riley," Buffy replied, trying to politely disengage herself from his grip. "I'm tired. Besides, they might need me at home."

"Just one drink? And look." He fished a cell phone from his pocket and handed it to her. "Use this to call home, see how things are."

Buffy looked at his eager face and sighed. He was like a giant puppy begging for a biscuit. She frowned, but held out her hand for the phone. No need to let him know that she had her own. "Fine."

Dialling home took a matter of minutes and, once her mom had reassured her–again–that everything was fine and Dawn had hooted with laughter when Buffy had revealed who her mystery date was, she handed the phone back to Riley. She took a deep breath, glanced at the impassive faces of Willow and Oz, and started to walk towards the nearest cab.

She had a feeling that her friends would have preferred to go home, but Willow was clearly so guilt-ridden over the whole fiasco, she felt like she had to tag along. Buffy was glad. Going dancing with her ex-boyfriend was not her number one idea of a good time.

When the taxi pulled up outside Caritas, Buffy really wished that she'd said no.

* * *

Walking through the doors sent shivers down Buffy's spine and brought forth a slew of memories that she had tried hard to suppress. Riley was by her side, grinning like a fool, exclaiming over the music, and the lights, and the crowd of dancers. Willow and Oz trailed behind, hands clasped together.

"Isn't it great?" Riley led them towards a table near the dance floor and pulled out a chair for Buffy with a flourish.

"Um, yeah." Buffy sighed and sat down. "Great."

"I'll get some drinks," Riley said. "They have amazing cocktails."

"So you've said. I'll just have a soda." Buffy took a deep breath, remembering a time when she had been the enthusiastic one, the girl exclaiming over the cocktails and the karaoke.

"You okay, Buffy?" Willow shot her a concerned glance when Riley had lumbered off to the bar.

"I'm fine," she replied. "Just… bad memories."

"Oh!" Willow's eyes widened. "Is this a _He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named_ place?" When Buffy didn't answer, she continued: "You know I don't mean Voldemort, right? I just didn't want to say his name…"

"It's all right, Will," Buffy said. "But yeah. I brought him here. It was…" She closed her eyes, memories washing over her. "Amazing. He sang, and we danced… and then made out like teenagers under the stairs." She paused, a small smile crossing her face. "He was so nervous. I think I was the first person he'd kissed in years."

Buffy had never been forthcoming with the details of her encounter with the mysterious Spike; she had told them his name, of course, and the barest bones of what had happened, but none of the finer points of their night together. And Willow had never asked.

Opening her eyes, Buffy shook her head slightly, as though shaking off a trance. She bit her lip, suddenly realising what she had been talking about. "Sorry, Will. Got a bit lost in the reminiscing there. Hey, where did Oz go?"

"I think the girly talkage scared him off." Willow grinned, before sobering when she saw the worried expression on her friend's face. "That's the first time I've heard you talk about what happened that night," she said. "Maybe… maybe now you'll be able to tell me more?" She looked around at the crowded club. "When we're not in such a public place, I mean."

Buffy nodded hesitantly. "It's been over three years, Willow. Why can't I forget him?"

"Maybe you're not meant to forget him," her friend replied. "You let him in, right? Let him crack that hard Buffy shell. That's gonna stick with you. Plus, hey, big ol' reminder every time–"

"Riley!" Buffy sent Willow a warning glance and made a lip-zipping motion, when she spotted her ex-boyfriend looming over the table. Her friend nodded in understanding.

"Here's your soda." Riley handed her the glass. "Isn't this place neat? I got talking to the owner at the bar. Did you know they do karaoke on Saturdays? How cool would it be if we all came back this weekend and sang?"

At the frightened look on Willow's face at such a prospect, Buffy dissolved into giggles, her friend soon joining her in the laughter.

* * *

Buffy let herself into her house, trying not to let the keys jingle too much as she turned the lock. It was late, and the house was dark, everyone evidently asleep.

Slipping off her shoes and dropping her keys on the hallway table, she glanced into the living room to see Dawn curled up on the couch, empty coffee mug lying next to an open _Cosmo_ on the floor. She smiled at the sight and covered her sister with a throw, before heading upstairs.

She moved towards the glow of the light in the smallest bedroom and pushed the door open, cringing when it creaked; the noise sounded overly loud in the quiet of the house.

Smiling at the sight of the sleeping figure in the narrow bed, she let herself relax, her worries dissipating for the first time that evening. She took a minute to make sure that the little girl was okay, her words no more than a whisper in the silence. "Night, sweetie."

-TBC-


	10. Chapter Ten

**A/N**: Thanks to everyone who's commented on this fic so far. I've done quite a bit of tweaking to this chapter since it was beta'ed, so any mistakes are my own. Hope you enjoy!

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Chapter Ten

"I'm not going."

"Yes, you are." Spike picked up his jacket and looked at his daughter. "We're only going to the shops, love."

"No, Dad," Claire said. "We're going to the _mall_." She put an American inflection on the word. "And I don't want to go."

"We need to get you kitted out for school, sweetheart." He knew that this was the root of the problem: not the shopping–for she had always enjoyed that–but the fact that they were going shopping for school supplies. She didn't want to start school.

Not that he could blame her, really. Always difficult being the new kid, but to be transferring in midway through the year and to be foreign? It wasn't going to be easy.

"We're going," Spike said firmly. "Go get in the car."

She grumbled all the way out of the house and down the drive, muttering something about _Mean Girls_ and the other students eating her alive.

Sitting behind the wheel of the car, he started the ignition and turned to her. "Chin up, pet. This is difficult for me too, you know. I don't know anyone around here, either." He didn't allude to the fact that he hoped this wasn't entirely true.

"Yeah, but you're old," Claire said. "It doesn't matter that you're not cool. But me? If I have the wrong clothes or haircut, they're gonna kill me."

"Shouldn't need to change yourself to fit in," Spike replied. He pulled out of the drive, frowning at Claire's words and the difficulty of trying to remember the best way to get to the mall. The house he'd bought was in the same neighbourhood that he'd lived in when he and Dru were newly married all those years ago, not that you'd know it; none of the people he'd known back then were still around.

"I know. It'll just be easier, okay?"

"All right, love."

She sent him a small smile, and for the first time since he'd accepted the job offer, he started to feel that things were going to be all right.

* * *

"I can't believe you talked me into letting you do that to yourself," Spike said, and dropped his keys on the hall table before staring in horror at his daughter.

She had persuaded him to let her dye her hair a golden blonde, using his abuse of the _Goddess Clairol_ as her leverage, saying she'd fit in more at school if she went for the lighter shade. New, more form-fitting clothes left him staggered that his little girl had a _figure_. Where had his baby gone?

"I'm not letting you out of the house looking like that."

"Dad, come on." Claire rolled her eyes, pausing for a moment before running into his arms and squeezing him tightly around the middle.

He returned the unexpected hug. She knew how to get around him, all right. "Go on, get the rest of your stuff put away. Cost me a bloody fortune today, you have."

"Thanks," Claire said. "And hey, at least you won't have to pay for–what is it they say here? _Therapy_, when I'm older."

"True." Spike nodded thoughtfully and grinned.

"_And_ you have your swanky new promotion to pay the bills," Claire continued. "Think you'll be able to get me Justin Timberlake's autograph?"

Spike chuckled. "Think I'll be starting a bit smaller. Local bands and the like. Now go on, get your stuff sorted, and we'll order some dinner. How about that?"

Claire nodded and gathered her purchases together before climbing the stairs two at a time.

Spike stared after her, wondering again how he'd not noticed that she had grown up.

* * *

"Have you got everything, then?" Spike tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in agitation. No matter his reassurances to the contrary, he was worried about how the other kids would take to her.

He remembered all too well what it was like to be the weird English kid with poofy hair and glasses. At least Claire looked the part.

"Yes, Dad! Stop worrying, will you?" She took a deep breath, and Spike could see her pale cheeks belying her casual confidence. "I'll see you later?"

"Yep," Spike replied. "I'll be here at three. Have a good day, love."

She nodded and set her mouth in a grim line of determination. "Bye."

Spike watched her cross the car park and ascend the steps before disappearing into the school.

That was that, then.

* * *

How did you start looking for someone when you only knew the barest minimum of facts?

He had the name she had given him, Anne. He knew that she was a martial arts instructor. That she liked cocktails and was–_had been_–a regular at Caritas. Her dead boyfriend's name, he only half-remembered. _Angel?_ He couldn't recall.

Spike knew that making the conscious decision to look for her, to track her down, was more dangerous than simply leaving it to fate, but he had to know. Had to rid himself of the what-ifs and maybes that had plagued the last three-and-a-half years.

Perhaps she wouldn't remember him. Maybe she wouldn't want to. Until he knew for sure, though, one way or the other, he had to try.

Sighing, he opened _Google_ and began to search for martial arts classes taught by women. It was a start, at least.

* * *

  
He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he jumped when a hand fell on his shoulder.

Turning in his chair, he saw that it was Claire, schoolbag in hand and a bemused look on her face.

"Kickboxing?" She asked, peering at the computer screen.

"Er…" Spike hedged. "Yeah. Thought you might like to start a new hobby. New city an' all." He frowned, and glanced at the clock. "What are you doing home? I thought I was supposed to pick you up at three?"

"Dad, I've always hated sports." She set her bag down and perched on the edge of the desk. "And the computer teacher didn't turn up. Something about her friend's kid being ill." She shrugged. "So they let us go early. I'd have called you, but a girl in my English class lives just down the road. Her mum gave me a lift."

"Yeah?" Spike closed the lid of the laptop and folded the sheet of paper he'd been making notes on into his pocket. "Made some friends then?"

Claire lifted one shoulder, half-shrugging as she replied, "I guess. Everyone was nice to me."

"I'm glad." Spike smiled, and she grinned back.

"So, Dad," she said, laughing. "Kickboxing, really? Do you even know me at all?"

Spike laughed softly, all the while the notepaper with the addresses of several martial arts classes burning a hole in his pocket.

* * *

The sign above the shop read _Harris Books_ in large, black letters. The windows gleamed in the sunlight, lighting up the well-crafted displays on the inside.

Spike checked the piece of paper in his hand and glanced back up at the sign. Yep, he was in the right place. Perhaps the address was out of date, because this didn't look anything like a martial arts centre. It was only the third address he'd tried, and he'd been hoping it would be third-time lucky.

He went into the shop anyway, in hopes that perhaps the owner would be able to tell him more. A bell jingled when he pushed the door open, sounding obnoxiously loud in the silence of the shop. He had always thought that stepping into a bookshop was very much like going into a library: silence reigned–and the one who broke it was glared at–and this one was no different.

A slim blonde stepped out from behind the counter, a bright smile on her face. "Hello! My name is Anya. Welcome to Harris Books. How may I help you spend your money?"

"Er…" Spike was slightly taken aback by her effusive approach. "I was actually looking for the martial arts school. The address I had brought me here…"

"Oh, you're in the right place." Anya's smile fell a little, as though she realised that he was not there to make a purchase. "I've told Buffy a thousand times to get a new sign sorted, but–" She broke off, and fixed a grin to her face again. "Well, anyway. This is the right place; she runs the school from the training rooms out back. Everything's postponed for a couple of weeks, though. If you want to leave your number, Mr–?"

Spike didn't answer, his attention caught by a series of photographs clustered next to the cash register.

There was one of Anya in a wedding dress, a dark-haired man by her side. Another of Anya holding the hands of two little boys. A third depicted a group of smiling people: a redheaded man and woman, Anya and her husband once again, a sultry brunette with a come-hither smile, and... a blonde, her face so familiar to him after he'd been picturing it in his mind almost non-stop those last few years.

He'd found her.

* * *

Faced with the reality of having found her, Spike discovered that he didn't feel nearly quite so brave.

The shopkeeper had taken great delight in pointing out her friends–_"That's me and Xander, my husband. There's Willow and Oz. That's Faith, and on the end is Buffy. She's the one you're looking for."_

Oh, if only she'd known how true that was. Spike had muttered something about it being a lovely photo, accepted a business card for the martial arts school, and exited the shop, mind awhirl.

Buffy Summers.

It wasn't what he had expected, after having called her Anne for so long in his mind.

Buffy Summers.

It was such an unusual, silly name. It would take some getting used to.

He drove to Claire's school in a daze, pulled into the car park and came to a stop. He killed the engine and undid his seatbelt before leaning over the steering wheel and resting his head in his hands.

What did he do next? Finding her had been easier than he had ever imagined, and now–

He didn't know.

-TBC-


	11. Chapter Eleven

**A/N:** Once again, thank you so much for the reviews and comments to this fic. This is where I run out of chapters - I have the next one half-written so I hope I can keep up with regular updates. I'll keep you posted, though, at my livejournal. Thanks to Sotia for beta reading!

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Chapter Eleven

A week passed, and Spike found that he wasn't any closer to making a decision about what to do.

He sat back against the wooden steps of the porch, and flicked away his half-smoked cigarette. Occasionally swigging from his beer bottle, he watched as the tip of the cigarette glowed red in the darkness then burned into ashes.

It was a clear night, cool and crisp, the early January air refreshing. Too much light from the city prevented him from seeing the stars in the sky, but it comforted him to know that they were there, even if they weren't visible. Dru had always liked the stars, and in the last months of her life it had been a treat to go outside to try to see them, a break from the monotony of her hospital room.

Spike stood up and began to pace at the sudden melancholy at the memory of Drusilla. He'd barely thought of her in the last few weeks–months, even. Hadn't even been back to the cemetery, now within easy driving distance of the house, to visit her grave.

There was a strange kind of guilt bubbling inside of him at the thought, but he pushed it away. Tried not to notice it, because running parallel alongside it was a sort of pride that he'd finally allowed himself to move on.

Except... now his focus was on Buffy. He'd always been a stupid git, ruled by his heart, and now here was the proof: he'd come halfway around the world in the hope that a girl he'd had a one-night-stand with would want to see him again.

Fate, kismet, he didn't think he believed in such things. But he was here now, in L.A., and he had an address, a place to find her, to see if that connection they'd had–that connection that had been burning inside of him for the last three and a half years–still existed.

He set down his beer bottle on the porch step, stretched, and looked at the starless sky once more before going into the house. He started his new job in the morning, and would need a good night's rest.

* * *

The first day at his new job was more like a game of show and tell than actual work. _Here's your shiny new office, there's where you'll meet with all the important bigwigs_. His boss was a slippery snake of a man, named Snyder, who took great pleasure in informing Spike that the band he was going to be working with had only been signed because of their '_potential_' and not any real talent. The implication was clear: Spike, as the new boy, had been assigned the least favourable band and would have to work doubly hard to promote their music and arrange gigs.

Spike told himself to reserve judgement until he'd actually met with the band and heard them perform, but it already seemed like he'd been handed the short straw.

After that, his first week was quite laid back; the first meeting with the band wasn't until the following Tuesday, and so he spent his office hours getting to know the ins and outs of the company and avoiding Harmony, the blonde secretary who clearly wanted to get to know _his_ ins and outs.

"Morning Mr. Giles!" Her chirpy voice was enough to put him off the cup of coffee he'd picked up on the way into the office.

"Harmony." He nodded to her in greeting before turning back to his desk and pretending to type something on the computer.

"Anything I can do for you, Mr. Giles?"

"Not right now," Spike said, trying not to roll his eyes.

"All righty, then!" She turned to leave, sending him a flirtatious smile from beneath batted eyelashes. "I'll just be out here. At my desk. All. Day. Long."

"Excellent news," he replied, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "I'm sure Mr. Snyder will be very pleased to know you have such dedication to the job. Not leaving your desk for anything? That's impressive."

Confusion spread across her face before her perma-smile was back in place and she backed from the room, closing the door behind her with a wink.

Spike sighed and stopped pretending to type, looking instead through the paperwork left unfinished by his predecessor.

* * *

Spike shook the bassist's hand with a smile. There was something vaguely familiar about the guy, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

The rest of the band was introduced and Spike cleared his throat to make his own introduction. "Well as you already know, the name's officially William Giles. If you call me William, though, I'll think you're my dad, so it's just Will, or Spike. Lived here, in L.A., a few years ago but I've only just moved back from England."

"My wife's a Will," the bassist–Oz–put in. "Short for Willow. So I'll stick with Spike." He paused. "Less confusion."

"Weird nickname, man," the lead singer said.

Spike smiled wryly. "So I've been told."

Meeting over half an hour later, the bizarrely named _Dingoes Ate My Baby_ left his office, with Spike promising to attend one of their practice sessions the following week.

The rest of the day went surprisingly well, Spike thought. Snyder had led him to believe that the band were useless ruffians, with no hope of ever going any further than a school assembly hall. On the contrary, they seemed dedicated, put together, and interested in what Spike had to say, as well as in his ideas for promoting the band and getting them gigs at the more popular venues in the city.

He returned home with a smile on his face, relieved that his decision to return to Los Angeles had seemingly been the right one.

Claire was diligently doing her homework when he got in. He eyed her with suspicion. "Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?"

She rolled her eyes. "What, doing my homework is a crime now?"

"Course not. Just didn't expect to come home and see you all studious-like."

"It's interesting," she said. "And the teacher's really cool."

Spike shrugged. He wasn't going to discourage her from doing her work after all. He ruffled her hair and smiled when she batted his hand away with a frown. "Glad you're settling in okay." He narrowed his eyes. "You are, aren't you?"

"_Yes_, Dad."

He sensed her exasperation and smiled. "Good. Spag bol all right for dinner?"

She nodded, her gaze already focused on her book, and he left the room without disturbing her further.

* * *

  
Oz picked out several notes on his guitar, pausing before scribbling them down on a piece of paper. The new song was coming along well, and he wanted it done before the new manager listened in on practice the following week.

He was so intent on the music, the sudden touch on his shoulder made him jump. He turned to see Willow standing behind him, smiling a little guiltily.

"Sorry," she said and set her bag down on the floor next to his chair, before moving around and perching on its arm. "How'd the big meeting go? Gonna get all famous on me now?"

"Doubtful," Oz replied. "But with Spike's help, we _might_ actually make it out of Devon's garage."

"With _whose_ help?"

"Spike. The new manager."

"Your new manager's name is _Spike_?"

"Yep."

"Oh." She paused for a moment. "That's not really a common name, is it?"

"For a dog, maybe." Oz shrugged.

"But not for a person." Willow stood, her hands fluttering nervously in front of her. "Oh God, oh God! Oz, what are we going to do?"

"About what?"

"_Spike_!"

"We have to do something about Spike?" Oz frowned, wondering when his wife had gone crazy.

"Yes!" Willow sat down abruptly on the coffee table in front of him. "Unless he's American! Or… or French. Or Canadian!" She grinned. "Or hey, maybe even French-Canadian! Just please tell me he's not British."

"As British as the Beatles."

"Uh-oh."

"Willow." Oz put his hands on hers to stop her jittery movements. "What's all this about?"

"Buffy, and Spike, and the fact that your new manager is quite possibly the one night stand that messed with her head four years ago, and you know what that means, Oz? It means that your new manager is Grace's dad!" Her words spilled out in a single breath.

"Huh."

-TBC-


	12. Chapter Twelve

**A/N:** All of the other chapters were written before I even started posting this fic - now that I'm writing at the same time as posting, I'm not going to be keeping to my previous posting schedule. I'll just post the chapters as soon as they're ready, and I hope that I'll be able to keep them pretty regular. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far! And thank you to Sotia for beta reading. :)

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Chapter Twelve

_Three and a half years ago_

"No, no, no, _no_!" Buffy gazed at the lines on the white stick in horror. This couldn't be happening, could it? Not again.

She hadn't thought anything of her sudden tiredness, or the unsettled feeling in her stomach, putting them down to stress. But when she'd realised she'd skipped a period, and the scent of bananas had suddenly started to make her feel queasy–a symptom of the pregnancy she'd tried so hard to forget–she'd had to start facing facts.

Now, the two blue lines showed that she definitely was pregnant. She tried to blink back the tears that filled her eyes and sat down heavily on the closed lid of the toilet.

Mind on auto-pilot, she mechanically tore off a strip of toilet paper, wrapped the test in it and buried it in the trash can.

Out of sight, but not out of mind.

The biggest question? How. Oh, she knew _how_ such a thing happened in theory, but the unexpected side-effect of her night with the blond stranger three months ago was one she thought she'd been protected against.

Laying her hand on her stomach, Buffy tried to imagine it, a baby insider her, at that moment no more than a tiny cluster of cells. The thought made her feel sick, bringing back unwanted memories. She found herself leaning over the bowl of the toilet, her breakfast not tasting nearly as nice on its way back up.

Coughing, she stood on shaky legs, her face pale and her palms sweaty. She splashed water onto her face, grimacing at the picture she made in the mirror: a blotchy, snotty, teary mess. She rinsed her mouth out and took a deep breath, wondering what she should do now. She knew all the options, of course: they'd been drummed into her back when she was seventeen, but things weren't the same, now. She wasn't the same.

The phone ringing saved her from making the decision, and she moved into the hallway to answer it, tears filling her eyes once more when she heard the voice on the other end of the line: the one person she needed most in that moment.

"Hi, Mom."

* * *

_Present Day_

Buffy took a sip of her coffee and winced when it burned her tongue. She set the cup back down on the table and looked to Willow expectantly.

"You wanted to talk?"

"Um, yeah." Willow's reply came after a lengthy pause during which she shredded the top part of her blueberry muffin.

Buffy waited for a few more moments, her attention momentarily diverted by Grace's babbling from the stroller beside her. She smiled at her daughter, receiving a toothy grin in return, and smoothed the soft hair back from her face. "Willow? I have to get to Grace's appointment, soon. And you said it was important, so…"

"Sorry! But I… I'm just not sure how to say this."

"Spit it out."

"Okay. So, um… The Dingoes just got a new manager." Willow shot a quick, nervous glance at Grace before continuing. "A blue-eyed, bleach-blond Brit–named Spike."

Buffy's eyes widened and her face drained of colour. "Spike?"

* * *

_Three and a half years ago_

"Spike?" Joyce let out a little, incredulous laugh. "You let yourself get pregnant by a man named _Spike_?"

Buffy sighed. "Yes, Mom. But… it wasn't like that. _He_ wasn't like that, okay?"

"What else am I supposed to think, Buffy? You're twenty-seven, an adult now." Joyce tutted. "I can't believe you're making the same mistakes as when you were seventeen."

"Don't, Mom." Buffy stood up and turned away, not wanting her mom to see that she was barely holding it together.

"After all you went through back then, I'd have thought you'd be a little more careful! It's bad enough you slept with this man the same night you met him, but you couldn't have used protection?"

"I thought I had!" Buffy shouted. "I'm on the pill. I just… I was taking antibiotics. Must have messed things up." Her face fell, and she sat down on the couch, the fight gone out of her. "I know I've screwed up, Mom. You don't need to tell me. A baby? _So_ not what I wanted."

"Oh, Buffy…" Joyce sighed and sat down next to her daughter, before pulling her into a hug. "Do you know what you're going to do?"

"Keep it." Buffy put her hand across her stomach and took a deep breath. "I'm not–I can't go through that again. I don't feel ready for this. I don't think I'd ever have felt ready for this. But I'm going to keep the baby." She paused. "There's just no other option."

Joyce nodded. They were silent for several moments, Buffy's breath hitching as she tried to stop herself from crying.

"Let me get you some water." Joyce stood, leaving Buffy alone in the living room. She slumped down against the cushions on the couch and closed her eyes. Her world was tilting on its axis, the steady pace her life had settled into over the last few years suddenly upset. She felt stupid, embarrassed that she'd let this happen. Her mom was right; she shouldn't be repeating the same mistakes she'd made as a teenager.

Limbs feeling suddenly heavy, Buffy drew her legs up against her side and wrapped her arms around a cushion. She drifted off to sleep a few moments later.

* * *

It was dark when Buffy awoke, and someone–her mom, presumably–had tucked a blanket around her. She felt warm and sleepy, and for a few moments she hovered happily in that space between sleep and wakefulness, before the events of the day came flooding back.

The television was on, the sound the barest of murmurs in the quiet of the room. Her mom was in the armchair, gaze fixed on the screen but with a frown on her face, and Buffy knew that she wasn't really paying attention to it.

Buffy sat up and stretched, shaking the stiffness out of her limbs. The movement caught Joyce's attention and the room fell into darkness when the television was switched off a moment later.

They sat in silence for several long moments, and, though the earlier argument had been resolved before Buffy had fallen asleep, she couldn't help but feel the same acute sense of shame, guilt and even fear as she'd had ten years ago, when she and a nervous Angel by her side had confessed to sleeping together.

Eventually, Buffy broke the quiet with a loud sigh. "Mom, you're mad at me. I get it. But can we stop with the stony silence? I feel like a kid again."

"I'm not mad at you," Joyce replied, after a moment's thought. "I was, earlier, and I shouldn't have been. You're an adult, it's your life."

"I know that," Buffy said, with a watery smile, "but there's nothing worse than being a disappointment to your parents. I felt like you and Dad were disappointed in me–for a long time, back then. For getting pregnant in the first place and… and for what I did after."

"Oh, honey." Joyce got up from the armchair and crossed the room in a flash. She sat next to Buffy on the couch and pulled her into a hug. "I'm not disappointed in you. Worried, yes. I can't imagine how you must feel." A frown crossed her face. "I _am_ a little angry at the circumstances, though. A man named _Spike_, sweetie? Really?"

"Mom!" Buffy elbowed Joyce lightly in the side. "I told you that it wasn't like that! He was… " She drifted off, trying to think how best to describe Spike to her mom; it wasn't as though the words _fantastic_ and _sex_ could feature into the conversation. "He was amazing. Sweet, funny, and it just felt like we had this connection, you know? Not to mention–so, _so_ hot."

Joyce smiled. "I'm surprised you let him get away."

"Yeah." Buffy's face fell and she bit her lip. Her mom was not going to take the next part well. "He, er, lives in England. Kinda had to let him get away, you know, for his plane?"

"Oh," Joyce replied. "Oh dear. You have his number, though, right?"

"Not so much," Buffy said, and felt a gnawing sensation settle in her stomach. She had been so caught up in the shock of finding out she was pregnant that she hadn't given a thought to how she was going to contact Spike to tell him. Hadn't even thought about whether she _wanted_ him to know, not least if it was even possible.

"Address? E-mail?" Joyce prodded.

"Nothing." Buffy shook her head. "It wasn't meant to–we both understood that it was just a one time thing. No numbers, no real names, nothing."

"No real names?"

"I told him I was called Anne," Buffy replied, blushing slightly. "I didn't know how things were going to end up when I first met him…"

"If you decide not to, then I'll support you but, Buffy, you need to find him and tell him."

Buffy swallowed, hard. "I know."

* * *

_Present Day_

"…and you've gotta tell him!" Willow finished, blueberry muffin now shredded to pieces and resembling nothing but crumbs. "'Cause there's this meet-and-greet brunch next week with the band and Oz is making me go and you know how bad I am at keeping secrets and–"

"Willow!" Buffy said, loudly, cutting her friend off before she started hyperventilating.

The shock of hearing Spike's name had paralysed her for a few moments, and she had simply stared in shock while Willow had gone into more detail about the Dingoes new manager and how her friend thought that he was _the_ Spike, her Spike, Grace's father.

"Sorry," Willow said now. She frowned at the mess she'd made of her muffin and covered it with a napkin, passing a little piece of the cake to Grace before she did so. "But, isn't this exciting? O-or, kinda scary, I guess. I remember how um, stressy you were back when you couldn't find him."

"It's a little of both," Buffy admitted, not wanting to let on how much her heart had dipped and soared. "But I need to be sure it's him before I get my hopes up."

"It's him," Willow said. "I can feel it. Besides, how many bleach-blond Spikes can there be?"

"Still," Buffy said, wary. She had given up seriously looking for Spike a few months after Grace had been born. Although there had been a few times since that she'd wanted to make the effort again, most notably in the last few months, it had seemed an impossible task.

Now, she found it hard to believe that the Spike Willow was talking about was _him_, her Spike. What were the chances?

Glancing at her watch, she bit back a curse when she saw the time. "Shoot, I have to go." She stood and started to gather her things together, trying not to jostle the stroller too much, because Grace had fallen asleep.

"But–"

"I _really_ have to go," Buffy interrupted. She still had plenty of time to get across town for the appointment, but she didn't want to talk about Spike anymore. Avoidance was easier.

"Come to the meet-and-greet," Willow said. "You wouldn't have to stay. Just come and see if it is him? You need to know."

"I'll think about it," Buffy replied, and Willow must have got the hint because she fell silent, a defeated look on her face.

"Okay." Willow pouted. "We'll talk about it later."

"Thanks, Will." Buffy left the café, mind spinning and her heart clenching.

-TBC-


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N:** Sorry for the shortness of this chapter. The next one will be a long one, though. ;) Thanks to Sotia for beta-reading and to everyone who has left a review so far!

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Chapter Thirteen

Spike had a plan. Well, more like a half-formed idea, but it was a start. He'd decided that he simply had to bite the bullet and go see Buffy–no more prevaricating.

A couple of days earlier, he'd called the number on the business card for Buffy's martial arts school and he'd spoken to an abrupt woman named Kennedy. She'd informed him that classes were back in session and that he could drop in any afternoon he liked, if he wanted to speak to the owner.

Phase one of the plan was complete. Phase two involved actually going down there and finding her, and that was where things got a little more complicated.

What should he say? How would she react? The very fact that he had found her, sought her out after so long, would speak volumes.

Spike sighed and smoothed his hair back, narrowing his eyes at the figure reflected in the mirror. Phase two would have to wait; right now, he had to finish getting ready for the meet-and-greet brunch he had set up for the Dingoes and some potential gig-organisers. It was his first official act as their manager, and he wanted to make a good impression.

Claire was spending the day at a friend's house, he was dropping her off on the way, so he smoothed his clothes down once more, picked up his car keys and hurried down the hall to see if she was ready to go.

* * *

Buffy flattened out the imaginary wrinkles in her dress and took a deep breath. So far, her plan of hiding in the bathroom was working like a charm.

The 'casual' gathering was turning out to be a lot swankier than Willow had let on: trendy nightclub _Blue Orchid_ had been transformed for the event, with several round covered tables and a long trestle filled with delectable treats. Buffy felt silly and out of place despite having been officially brought along as Devon's plus-one.

She was starting to regret going. Doubts had set in when she had seen how official everything looked, and when Oz had confirmed that this was their first real step to getting onto the upper-end of the LA club-circuit, Buffy had questioned again if it was really the best idea.

If–and it was a very big "if;" she still wasn't convinced that this Spike was _her_ Spike–but _if_ it was he, now would not be the time to reveal to him that he had a daughter. For his sake and for the sake of the band, it would be better left to a later date.

So what was she doing there? She didn't know, and neither did her reflection in the mirror.

She should leave, then. Make her apologies for being a party-pooper and go home. She would find another way to find out if Spike was Spike–maybe Willow could snap a photo on her cellphone.

She nodded to her image and took a moment to brace herself before heading back into the throng of people in the club's main room.

The buzz of voices was a welcome distraction from her thoughts as she made her way around the edge of the room, all at once trying to avoid making eye-contact with anyone and locate her friends.

Buffy spotted the matching red heads of Willow and Oz near the bar and cursed. Why couldn't they have been standing near to the door? She frowned, wondering whether to leave and send a text message to Willow, or do the polite thing and actually go over there.

She had just decided to make a break for it without letting her friends know, when she saw Oz glance at his watch, kiss Willow on the cheek and head towards the exit. Buffy hurried after him, the cool air from the open door at the end of the corridor a relief after the close heat in the club.

"Oz!"

Oz turned, and smiled when he saw her. "Hey, Buffy."

"Hey," she replied. "Look, I'm going to take off. Will you let Willow know?"

"Sure," Oz said, pursing his lips slightly. "I thought you were here to see–y'know."

"Yeah." Buffy sighed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and fiddling nervously with the strap on her bag. "I don't think this is the right time or place to see… y'know. You know?"

"Hm." Oz's expression didn't change, but when he glanced down the hallway towards the door, Buffy thought she saw a glimmer of something–worry, perhaps–in his eyes. She followed his gaze down the corridor and froze, not hearing whatever it was that Oz said next, when she saw the man standing in the doorway.

It _was_ him. Spike. The man she had met three-and-a-half years ago, who had unknowingly made such an impact on her life. Grace's father.

Time had warped her memory of him; over the years, she had had trouble remembering just what he looked like, and seeing him now was a shock. Grace had his eyes, his nose, and the oddly compelling angles of his face. Buffy stared at him unblinkingly, her heart pounding hard in her chest, and he stared back, looking just as shocked as she felt. Abstractly, Buffy wondered why.

Her perusal of him felt like it had gone on for hours, but in reality took only a few seconds.

She was unable to move, until she saw Spike take a halting step forward, and his mouth form her name. Then, she panicked. Buffy cast a fleeting glance to Oz before she turned and ran back into the club, barely managing to dodge the people in her way as she moved towards the service entrance she'd seen next to the restroom.

Three-and-a-half years she'd waited to find Grace's father. Three-and-a-half-years of imagining what she would do if she saw him again, what she would tell him.

She hurried out through the door and round to the taxi rank. She managed to hail a cab almost immediately and sank down into the seat with a sigh, trying to ignore the voice in her head telling her that she was a coward.

* * *

Spike blinked, not entirely sure that she hadn't been a figment of his imagination. Had it really been Buffy? He turned to look at Oz, whom he'd barely registered when he'd walked through the door.

"Did you see–? That woman, was she–?" He spoke haltingly, not entirely sure what he wanted to say.

"Buffy?" Oz nodded. "Yep."

"You know her?" Spike asked. He let out a choke of laughter, suddenly realising why Oz had seemed so familiar when they'd first met. Spike had seen him on one of Anya Harris's photographs in the book-shop a few weeks ago.

"She's a friend," Oz replied, an uncomfortable expression settling onto his face. "Look, man. I don't think I should really talk about this–"

"So there's something to talk about?" Spike demanded. "She's mentioned me, then? Back then, or now, or–?"

"I really can't," Oz said and looked at his watch. "Besides, they're expecting us inside."

"Right." Spike clenched his fists together and followed Oz into the club. "Bollocks."

-TBC-


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**A/N**: Sorry for the delay with this chapter, it took a while to write. I'm going on holiday on the 7th August for two weeks, so there won't be an update now for a while. I'm hoping to get some writing done, but I'm not sure how well that will go. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

**Swings and Roundabouts**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Buffy settled Grace onto the bed and pulled the comforter up around the little girl's shoulders. She ghosted a hand over the top of Grace's head, careful not to touch her hair or face for fear of waking her.

Settling down into the chair beside the bed, Buffy sighed. Why had she run? Hadn't finding Spike been what she'd wanted? Why had she gone to the brunch if she hadn't planned on seeing him?

Oh, she could make all the excuses in the world about it being the wrong place and the wrong time, but when would there ever be a good time for what she had in mind?

No. The truth was, she was a coward. A big, fat, 'fraidy-cat who'd let the shock of seeing Spike frighten her out of doing the right thing.

Buffy looked down at her daughter once more, and a soft smile crossed her face. Grace really did look a lot like her father.

Buffy had been disappointed in a way when, upon growing older, Grace had started to develop her own unique looks, and it had become clear that she had inherited very little from Buffy herself.

Now, having seen Spike again and with his appearance reinforced in her mind, she found herself not minding so much.

With one last check on Grace, so serene in sleep and knowing nothing of her mother's inner turmoil, Buffy left the room and headed downstairs.

Her mom was in the kitchen, clearing up the remnants of lunch. "She all tucked in?"

"Yep," Buffy said, smiling briefly. "Sound asleep for another–oh–good hour, at least."

"Good." Joyce piled the last of the plates into the dishwasher and switched it on. "Now that little ears are out the way, you can tell me what went wrong today."

Buffy groaned and pouted. "Do I have to? Can't I just wallow in my stupidity a little longer?"

"So what was it?" Joyce asked, ignoring her daughter's pleading look. "Foot-in-mouth-Buffy, or Babble-Buffy, or–"

"You can stop listing my faults any time now, Mom." Buffy glared at Joyce and received a grin in return. She sighed, but was inwardly glad that her mother was making light of the situation. It stopped _her_ from feeling like an idiot. "It was more like Cowardly-Running-Away-Buffy. I took one look at him and fled."

"Oh dear."

Buffy explained all that had happened, Joyce listening in sympathy but offering no comment until the end.

"I think you were right about one thing," Joyce said finally. "It wasn't the right place. You need somewhere neutral, so you can talk things out, somewhere where neither of you will be pressured by work or friends."

"I guess," Buffy replied, doubtfully. "I'll call Willow, see if Oz can arrange a meeting."

* * *

Willow was sympathetic, but disappointed that Buffy hadn't actually made contact with Spike. The squeal of delight when Buffy told her that yes, Oz's new manager Spike was her Spike had been almost deafening, and Buffy had had to smile despite the situation.

She wanted to meet with him as soon as possible, limit the amount of time for mind-changing, so she suggested a time and place for the following day, Sunday, and passed this on to Willow. Her friend confirmed that Spike would meet her, but didn't give anything else away–not Spike's reaction, or whether he'd said anything.

Buffy knew that he had recognised her. She'd seen it in his eyes during their very brief meeting at the _Blue Orchid_. There had been something other than recognition there, too, but she hadn't been able to work out what. Surprise? Shock? Happiness? She didn't know.

The place she'd arranged to meet him wasn't far from home, so Buffy opted to walk, knowing that the time would be well-spent in trying to calm her nerves and work up her courage. She'd armed herself with a couple of recent photos of Grace, just in case.

She neared the gates to the park and took a deep breath.

_Here we go._

* * *

Spike had been in a state ever since he'd seen Buffy at the _Blue Orchid_ the day before.

He'd barely managed to make it through the brunch the day before, but had pulled through, securing the Dingoes several upcoming dates at popular venues. Not bad, considering his state of mind.

He'd cornered Oz in the car park once the gathering was over, and demanded the redhead tell all he knew about Buffy and what she'd been doing there.

They'd been interrupted by Oz's wife, Willow, who'd approached with a slightly wary look on her face, cell phone in hand.

"That was Buffy," she said, waving the phone to indicate what she meant. She turned to Spike, and went straight to the point. "She wants to see you."

Spike ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. "So, she does remember me, then?"

Willow let out a choked burst of laughter. "I'd say so."

Spike frowned but continued, "Yeah, I'll see her. 'Course I will." He grinned, ruefully, wondering why Buffy had run away if she _did_ actually want to talk to him. "You can't begin to imagine how much I want to see her."

He missed the worried glace Willow sent Oz at his words. "Well, um, she has something in mind…"

"When?" Spike demanded. "Where?"

"Got a pen and paper?" Willow asked. When Spike nodded, and rifled in his pocket for the items in question, she carried on. "Okay. Tomorrow, eleven a.m. Cedar's Park. Okay? I'll tell her you'll be there?"

"Yep. I'll need directions, but I'll be there." Pen and paper tucked away, he ran his hands through his hair again. "God, this is weird, isn't it?"

Willow's eyes widened a little. "You have no idea."

* * *

Despite the strange circumstances, Spike was ecstatic about finally seeing Buffy again. He pondered for a while on the strange situation that had brought them together once more–it really _was_ a small world–but decided in the end that, like their previous encounter, this was just another nod from fate.

Spike pulled up along the edge of the sidewalk, cut the engine to his car and peered outside with curiosity.

Cedar's Park was not a name he'd been familiar with, but, on the drive over, he soon realised he was headed in the direction of the cemetery Dru was buried in. The realisation sent the familiar shock of guilt through him–guilt over not having visited her grave since his return to L.A. He pushed the feeling aside upon reaching his destination, got out of the car and made his way towards the park gates.

_Oh._

This was where they'd come after first meeting each other. Now that he had his bearings, he realised that the graveyard was just a couple of blocks away.

Why had Buffy suggested meeting there? Was it some strange sense of nostalgia or for another reason?

Spike sighed. Suddenly, everything felt far too pre-meditated, nothing like their serendipitous night together three-and-a-half years ago. Still, this was something he'd been waiting for a long time; it shouldn't matter how it came about.

He took a deep breath and went through the gates to the park, heading instinctively towards the tree they'd sat beneath.

_Here we go._

* * *

Buffy clenched her hands into fists, trying to calm the butterflies that had set up residence in her stomach. There he was, sitting–not unexpectedly–beneath the tree where they'd first spent time together. His bright blond hair was glinting in the sunlight, and he was sitting up against the trunk with his legs slightly spread, elbows resting on his knees and a pensive look on his face.

She self-consciously smoothed her hair down, pulled her sunglasses from her face and walked towards the tree, her steps hesitant. She was half-hoping that he would keep looking away, but her hopes were dashed when he raised his head and met her eyes, his own widening and then crinkling in the corners as his features settled into a smile.

Buffy smiled tentatively back and hoped that it didn't come out as a grimace. Eventually, she came to a stop in front of him, and he stood up. There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the myriad of everyday noises in the background: birds chirping, children playing, and traffic from the road.

"Hi," she said in the end, wincing at how trite it sounded.

"Hello," he replied, then grinned. "_Buffy_."

She ducked her head, knowing he was referring to the fact she'd previously given him a fake name, and the moment of awkwardness was broken, somewhat.

"Shall we sit down?" he asked, gesturing towards the ground. Buffy nodded and sat down on the grass. She drew her legs up against her chest and watched while Spike adopted the same position as before.

"So–"

"So…"

They spoke at the same time, abruptly stopping when they realised the other had spoken.

Spike laughed and his palm over his face. "God, this is awkward."

"Tell me about it." Buffy plucked absently at the grass, more for something to do than for any other reason.

Several more moments passed by, neither of them speaking until Buffy decided to bite the bullet and just go for it. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped abruptly when she saw that Spike had done the same. Grinning slightly, she gestured for him to go first. Perhaps it would be easier that way.

He nodded and she followed the movement of his throat and mouth as he swallowed and licked his lips in readiness to talk. "You know," he began, voice strong and confident, belying his nervous actions, "I just realised something. We don't really know each other. It wouldn't be this awkward if we did." He paused for a moment, thinking. "I've built this up so much in my mind, and this is not how I thought our seeing one another again would go."

Buffy refrained from asking him how he'd thought it would go, too surprised by the fact that he'd even thought about finding her again in the first place.

"I thought about you a lot," Spike continued, not meeting her gaze, staring instead at the ground. "Wished I'd got your real name before I left, or your number. Spent quite a lot of time those first few months back in England thinking up ways to try and find you, but–"

"Why?" Buffy interrupted.

"Why?" Spike repeated, and frowned. "Because I liked you. Thought we had–and you said it yourself, back then–a connection. You changed me that night, Buffy. I was wallowing, too depressed over Dru to see that, and you broke me free from it. Made me see that life was worth living again." His tone was earnest now, and he was staring at her with such emotion in his eyes that Buffy couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. "We were strangers," he went on. "Still are, really. But I didn't forget about you. And when I got offered a promotion here in L.A., I took it not only because it was the right thing for me and my family, but because I wanted to see if I could find you again. If you still… remembered me."

"You came back to L.A. for me?" Buffy asked, a sinking sense of horror filling her stomach. Things weren't going at all how she'd expected.

"Yes. No. God, this is coming out all wrong! I don't want you to think I'm some kind of crazy stalker." Spike tilted his head back against the trunk of the tree, exposing the smooth lines of his neck to her gaze. She focused her eyes there, but stayed silent and waited for him to go on. "I came back to Los Angeles for the job, but I can't deny that when I heard it was in L.A., my mind went straight to you. You had an impact on me that night, helped me move on. And that's not something easily forgotten."

Buffy nodded, understanding a little better now, but still worried that they had come here at cross-purposes. She could see in his eyes that he wanted to pursue things with her romantically, while her only thought was to let him know he had a daughter.

He was silent, his expression worried while he waited for her to say something. "Spike." She stopped, realising suddenly that while he was no longer under the impression that her name was Anne, she didn't know his real name. Inwardly, she laughed. She was about to tell the guy he was the father of her child, and she didn't know his real name. That seemed wrong, and so she asked him.

"It's William," he said. "William Giles."

"Okay." Buffy nodded, trying the name out in her mind. _William_. It was nice. "William, I think you came here today to see me again… but maybe to also see whether _I_ wanted to see _you_ again. Um, like, for a date." She paused, looking for acknowledgement, and she got it. Spike slowly nodded his head, and a light blush stained his cheeks. "I–I'm not really sure what to do with that, to be honest. Because… because I came her for another reason. I–you–I mean..." Buffy broke off, frustrated.

_Just say it. I got pregnant. You have a daughter. It's not hard._ But it was. She tried once more to get her mouth to form the words, but, when that failed, decided that it was time to show and not tell.

She fumbled in her purse for the pictures of Grace she'd put there earlier. They were recent ones, and the resemblance between Grace and her father was clear for anyone to see.

She handed the photographs to Spike, and sat back and watched him, waiting for his reaction. He frowned when he took them from her, the expression only deepening as he thumbed through the pictures until it melted into a look of shock when realisation finally hit him.

Buffy swallowed nervously. He was looking through the pictures again, more slowly this time, examining each one for several long seconds before moving on to the next.

"Her name's Grace," she said, quietly. "She's–"

"–my daughter." His voice was hoarse. He stared at the last photograph in the stack for some time. It had been taken at Christmas, and Grace was sitting on Buffy's lap, a big grin on her face. She was waving a piece of shiny wrapping paper in the air.

Eventually, when Spike lifted his head and met Buffy's gaze, there were tears in his eyes.

-TBC-


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**A/N:** *gasp* What is this? An update? I am SO sorry for how long it's taken me to get this posted, especially because the chapter is kinda... short. But I lost my way a little with this fic... I've been working on something new (12,000 words in, so it's not like I've been lazy or anything!) This fic won two awards at the Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction awards. Thank you to anyone who voted! Onto the chapter... *bites lip nervously*

**Swings and Roundabouts**

Chapter Fifteen

A light breeze carried the wisps of Spike's cigarette smoke into the early evening sky. There was a peaceful silence about the place, a sense of anticipation filling the air.

The park-goers, walking their dogs and playing with their children, had long gone as the afternoon lengthened, and only Buffy and Spike remained, seated underneath the tree, backs to the trunk while they talked.

Now they sat in contemplative, but not uncomfortable, silence. The initial shock hadn't worn off. Upon seeing the photographs, Spike had immediately known what Buffy had wanted to tell him, and his heart had leapt into his mouth, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

He had gone to the park looking for Buffy and had instead found a daughter.

Buffy had haltingly explained what had happened in those first few months after she'd discovered her pregnancy: how she'd tried to find him, even going so far as to try and find Drusilla's grave for a clue to his last name.

She'd talked of how a few months ago Grace had fallen quite seriously ill and she had redoubled her efforts to locate him, to tell him he had a daughter. Spike's stomach had swooped at the thought of his unknown child falling ill without his having any knowledge of it at all.

Hesitantly, Buffy had asked how he was feeling and he hadn't known what to say. What could he tell her when he didn't know for sure how he felt himself? Shocked, for one. In awe. Afraid. Sad, that he'd missed the first few years of his daughter's life. There was even a strange, irrational anger towards Buffy, despite knowing that she had done all she could to find him, and a disappointment that she seemingly had no romantic interest in him. But, overall, a terrible yearning, a tugging of his heart, to see Grace, his daughter.

Now, as evening fell and his thoughts had a little more coherency, he opened his mouth to speak. "I want to see her." His voice was loud in the relative silence of the park, and he winced, not having meant to sound so abrupt.

"I'd like that too," Buffy replied, a small smile on her face. "I need a little time, to explain things to her, you know? She's still young… But she's not ignorant, so maybe… in a couple of days or so?"

"I'll need to talk to Claire," he said, almost to himself, "but yeah, a couple of days sounds good. Give me some time to get my head on straight."

Buffy nodded, but a frown appeared on her face, creasing her forehead when she focused on the first thing he'd said. "Claire?"

"My daughter," Spike reminded her. "I mentioned her when we first met, didn't I? Tried to show you a photo, if I recall."

"Oh." Buffy bit her lip, mentally kicking herself for having forgotten. "So Grace has a sister."

"Yeah."

"D'you think she'll be okay with this?" she asked, wondering if things had all of a sudden become far more complicated than she'd originally thought.

"I really don't know." Spike shrugged, a worried look on his face. "She's getting to that stroppy teenage phase, so anything's possible."

Buffy said nothing, just nodded her head with a sigh before glancing at her watch. "I'd better get going. I feel bad leaving Grace with my mom so often; she's already done so much for me. So, shall we say… Tuesday? Are you free about four-ish?"

"Should be," Spike replied. "And if I'm not, I'll cancel. This is far more important."

* * *

In the end, Spike decided not to tell Claire about Buffy and Grace. Claire had an important test coming up and he didn't want to distract her from it. Perhaps that was the wrong path to take, and it could prove disastrous in the long-run, but truth be told, he was more than a little worried about how she would react.

If it had been such a shock to _his_ system, he imagined it'd be ten times worse for someone still so young.

He sighed. He'd see Grace on Tuesday, let Claire do her test on Wednesday and _then_ tell her. Keeping secrets was always worse than coming clean from the off, so he knew he couldn't leave it too long.

He tried not to let what had happened at the park affect his everyday life, but even a blind man could tell that something had changed.

He was distracted at work, which earned him a reprimand from Snyder, and Claire kept giving him funny looks over dinner on Monday night, particularly when he didn't eat his naan bread, usually a favourite of his.

"You okay, Dad?" his daughter asked through a mouthful of tandoori chicken. "You're weird tonight."

"I'm fine," he replied, cursing his daughter's perceptiveness but at the same time wanting nothing more than to get everything out in the open.

Claire frowned but returned to eating her curry and flicking through the pages of her maths book.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon found Buffy a bundle of nerves as she tried to get Grace ready.

"Your daddy's coming to see you today, sweetie," she said, brushing her daughter's springy curls.

"My daddy who lived in England," Grace declared proudly.

"That's right." Buffy had explained things to the little girl to the best of her abilities, and Grace had been in a state of perpetual excitement ever since. Grace had never really noticed her lack of a father before, being a little too young for it to have become an issue, and Buffy thought that she still didn't really understand, but perhaps it was better that way.

"This one?" Buffy asked, pulling a yellow dress from the cupboard. "Or the purple one?"

"Purple!"

"Purple it is."

Dressed and ready some time later, Grace perched on her hip, Buffy left the room and went downstairs. Joyce sat in the living room, coat on and purse in hand, her expression worried.

"You're still here, Mom?" Buffy asked, setting the little girl down on the floor. "It took me longer than I thought to get this little monster ready. Your hair appointment's at three, right?"

"Yes." Joyce nodded. "But I wanted to double check… are you _sure_ you don't want me here? I can stay. Andrea won't mind if I reschedule."

"I'll be okay." When Joyce didn't move and gave her that _mom_ look, Buffy sighed. "It'll be even more awkward with you here. Go. Please?"

"All right." Joyce pursed her lips but stood up and made her way to the front door. "But if you need me, I've got my cell."

"It'll be _fine_," Buffy said again. She all but shooed her mom out of the house, sinking against the door with a sigh when it closed. Truthfully, she felt far from fine: a horde of butterflies had taken residence in her stomach and they fluttered madly every time she thought about Spike coming here, to her home, to meet their daughter.

"Mommy?" Buffy felt a tug on her pant leg and looked down. Grace had a pad of paper in one hand and a packet of crayons in the other. "Help me draw a picture of daddy." She chewed on her lip, brow furrowed. "I don't know what he looks like."

"Oh, sweetie." She led her daughter back into the lounge and settled her at the coffee table. More than anything–things that had been said by Spike, by her mom, her friends–it was that one tiny sentence from Grace made her feel irrationally guilty.

She helped Grace draw the outline of a man, filling in the facial features with shadows underneath the hollows of his cheekbones and a bright blue for his eyes.

The afternoon wore on, the minutes ticking away, and Grace became ever more excited. She'd abandoned the crayons for her stuffed animals and was in the process of making the duck dance with the dog when the doorbell rang. Buffy stood, pressed one hand to her racing heart and guided Grace towards the front door with the other.

The sight of him nervously pacing the front path when she opened the door calmed her nerves slightly, and she gave him a little wave.

She had the sudden urge to laugh when Grace copied her, waggling her little fingers at Spike. "Hello. You're my daddy."

Spike's face softened, and he crouched down in front of Grace, his eyes intense as he took in every inch of her. He swallowed. "I am."

"Do you want to come in?" Grace asked, reaching her hand out towards him. "I drew you a picture."

He looked to Buffy, for reassurance perhaps, and she nodded, smiling. She almost didn't need to be there; it seemed as though Grace had everything under control, the way she led Spike into the living room, chattering non-stop about her drawings and Daisy the Dog.

-TBC-


End file.
